The other halfelf
by Lotten
Summary: There is another half-elf born at the same time as Tanis. And this one has a whole other level of rather creative difficulties to deal with.
1. When Porthios met Tress

Okay, this is fanfiction, meaning – more or less – that its purpose is to deviate from the actual story. It's not my fault if it doesn't make sense.

Also, please to remind yourself that this is a very young Porthios before you hit the OOC-button :D

* * *

**Chapter One**

**When Porthios met Tress**

* * *

Tressaloria Saltbringer couldn't believe her luck. It had been made very clear to her that sneaking into Qualinesti these days was damn nigh impossible; and when considering the general disposition of her own race, when even _they_ said 'impossible', you could be sure they meant it. And still, here she was. Of course, dressing up as an elven child had helped. She had seen a party of elves passing through a village where she was staying once, and a keen memory combined with a dab hand at sewing and a flair for acting had paid off. Oh, and the fact that clothes elven children usually wore were rather wide and baggy; otherwise she would never have managed to hide _some_ bits of herself. It was sneaky and not half as much fun as all the other methods she'd considered, but it was definitely more fun than being thrown out on her rump by testy elves. Plus, the disguise meant that she could walk undisturbed through the streets of Qualinost, leaving her free to marvel over its exquisite beauty and its streets that were teeming with life.

She noticed, as she approached the soaring turrets of the Tower of The Sun, how the elves around her were dressed even more fancily than before, although no one she had seen had looked dishevelled or poor. She'd never seen a city before that didn't at least have _some_ dirt lying about in the corners, so that was for sure something new. On the other hand, her experience of pretty, cleanly cities like Qualinost was that people made a point of hiding said dirt very well, but it was still there

The houses were getting swankier too, with spires and small towers shooting out from them like fireworks, and carved flowers and assorted fiddly bits all over, like the icing on a cake. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she was rather hungry, but she growled right back at it. She could eat later. She could eat _anytime_, but it wasn't every day that you visited the capital of the Qualinesti elves.

As she got closer to the Tower of The Sun, entering the vast grounds around it, people started looking a bit oddly at her, and some frowned in stern disapproval. She supposed that this was a place where children weren't allowed to go. Or no, she didn't really think there was a rule against it, or someone would've stopped her. It was probably one of those strange almost-rules that humans, and probably elves too, seemed to be so good at; one of those cases where there was no actual _rule_, nothing so outspoken, but no one did it nonetheless because… because it was bad, or something. Like the rest of her race, Tress had never been able to grasp that kind of social norm, and therefore cheerfully ignored it. However, she didn't want to get caught, so she endeavoured to look like she had a really, _really_ important mission to fulfil in this part of the city.

She succeeded, in a way; that is, she looked like a child convinced that she was doing something important. The elves that passed her smiled, thinking that she was a servant's daughter fetching something for her mother.

And so she slunk through gardens and plazas toward the Tower of The Sun, and had just started trying to figure out a way to get in, when she noticed a part of the huge gardens that appeared to be fenced in. Now, usually when people put up fences, it was because there was something interesting on the other side. It was, in fact, in itself a sign that it was worth the effort getting to the other side, and thus, Tress reasoned, people must put up fences because they _wanted_ people to break in. Putting up a fence because you wanted to shut someone out was completely irrational; if no one made an effort to shut you out, it was probably not worth going there anyway.

Glad of this particular piece of logical reasoning – even though, truth to tell, she had a feeling that the people putting up the fence hadn't been very logical about it at all – she sucked in her stomach and crouched a bit to make her chest smaller, and with all her might pushed her body against the gap between two iron fenceposts. A not small amount of wriggling and some bruises later, she was through, and as she pushed away the lilac bushes obscuring her vision, saw what people had tried to bring attention to by putting the fence there.

"Wow…"

It was a very beautiful house, probably even more beautiful than all the houses in the city together. Tress didn't know it, but it was one of the many private residences that the family of the Speaker of the Sun owned. Of course they had their official residence in the Tower of The Sun, but the Speaker and his family, like all elves, felt more comfortable when surrounded by the forest they loved, and splendid as the Tower was, it was still… well, a tower, soaring far above the tree-tops. This house was embraced on all sides by the by elves so treasured aspen.

But as pointed out, Tress didn't know this. All she knew was that this was a house she just _had_ to explore. And she would have, if not for…

A hand landed on her shoulder in a very firm grip. Acting on instinct, she bent her knees and twisted out of it, at the same time stepping away from the person so that she could get a clear view of him. Now, from Tress' point of view, almost everyone was ridiculously tall, but even she couldn't help noticing that the elf was rather tall for his race, and quite a bit more bulkily built too. There were warrior's muscles visible through the thin linen of his shirt.

"You are no child," he said, accusingly.

"What gave you a clue?" she responded cheekily, pushing out her chest toward him so that it was visible even though the folds of her clothes. Well, now that she was caught there was no need to beat about the bush.

He frowned. "You are a... kender?"

"Guilty as charged, and that's the first time anyone's ever heard me say that, so be proud." She chuckled at her own joke.

"How did you manage to get in here?" he demanded to know. "The city is out-of-bounds for your kind."

"Snuck in." She shrugged. "It wasn't _that_ difficult. And I'm rather good at masquerading as a child as long as you don't get too close and personal."

He seemed to be rather annoyed, but also... curious? "But why?" Apparently curiosity won out. Good choice, Tressaloria thought. "Why did you come here?"

She laughed. "_Because_ it's out of bounds, of course. I wanted to see what it was like. And it's a real pity you don't allow people here, you know, because it's really very beautiful. I actually heard that this was one of the places that the old gods used to love best. Do you think that is true?"

He blinked, obviously surprised. "Well, I... I do not know. I've never heard such a tale. We... do not speak much of the old gods," he said, looking saddened.

She shrugged. "Can't really remember where I heard it. Some old man I met a while ago, I think. He talked to trees, so he was probably insane, but I liked the story."

He nodded, and she thought he looked a bit indecisive, as if he couldn't figure out what to do next. So she smiled her sweetest smile at him, thinking that this would be a lot easier if she got him on her side.

"So, you never met a kender before, have you?"  
"No... But I've been forewarned," he said with a small smile. She grinned at him.

"Oh, really? And you think that will help, do you?"

"Well, I hope so," he said, bemused. "I'm usually a fast learner."

"Not fast enough," she said with a grin and held up the elf's dagger, complete with sheath, in her hand.

"I... oh."

"Here." She handed the dagger back, smirking. "It's a party trick. Always gets a laugh. Or a punch in the face. But only if they're fast enough to catch me."

"I thought kender weren't supposed to be aware of doing that," he said a bit ruefully. "Isn't that the whole point?"

"Well, it will happen whether I want it too or not. But as long as I concentrate I can notice when it's happening, and decide _what_ it is that I... uhm, purloin. Which allows me to avoid people's belts and, sometimes, underwear." She shrugged, a lopsided little grin on her face. "It's a gift, I suppose. Also, it saves me misunderstandings, so try to concentrate as often as I can."

"Oh. But that's unusual, is it?"

"Yes, I think so. Unless every other kender I ever met was a bloody liar. But I don't think so. Usually, we don't see the point of lies. Mostly because they are rarely more exciting than the truth anyhow."

"Oh..." He seemed to be struggle a bit with himself, and to judge from his expression he didn't win. With a bit of an uncomfortable shrug he then said, "Uhm... My name is Porthios, by the way. I am... I am the crown prince."

She raised her eyebrows, and then gave him a sudden extravagant mock bow. "And I am Tressaloria Saltbringer, your highness. But you can call me Tress, since I know it does not exactly roll off the tongue. Actually, more accurately you could say that it assaults your tongue in an alley and leaves it bleeding.

He laughed at that, and then tilted his head as an idea seemed to strike him. "You know, if we stay here, we might get seen, and then they'd probably throw you out. Wouldn't it be better if we... if we went somewhere outside the city? Because I have some... questions that I would like you to answer, if you don't mind. And I've heard," he smiled crookedly, "that your kind are rather good at coming up with questions as well, so it will be a fair exchange. What do you say?"

She laughed. "Fair's fair. Say, do you want your signet ring back?"

* * *

She stayed for a night in Qualinesti at his request; then for a week; then for a month. Before long, the two of them were close friends, without either of them knowing quite how it had happened. Impossibly, they just seemed to be perfectly relaxed in each other's company, and they could both make the other one laugh. Tress through her frankness, her blunt honesty and her sometimes absolutely absurd ideas; Porthios through his dry wit and sly jibes.

Tress kept hidden at his request, living in a rather nice cave not far from the city, and he smuggled out food and other necessities for her, knowing full well that she would use less honest methods to acquire them otherwise. They talked a lot, and she found to her surprise and pleasure that he confided in her; he even admitted that some of the things he would talk to her about were things he had never told a living soul before. She concluded that this must have rather much to do with that he had never met a kender before. She didn't think she was the kind of person that found it amusing to spill another's secret, but she knew she was the kind of person that still would. She couldn't help it, usually. She hadn't met anyone of her race that could. But as it was now, she had no one to tell.

She also realized soon enough that she was the only one in his life at the moment that didn't feel it was her obligation – because of love, concern or loyalty for their crown prince and their king – to convey everything he told them to the Speaker of the Sun. She was, amusingly enough, the only one he felt that it was safe to tell. And so she got to hear about his doubts and his fears, the dread that haunted him night and day; to not be the king that everyone seemed to think he was destined to be. She would give her opinion, and was surprised yet again to find that he didn't find her frank, often teasing remarks offensive. And, sometimes, when she found the gloom unbearable, she would interrupt him with stories of the world and the silliness of the people that lived in it, and he would take her rudeness in stride and be amused and cheered.

He also told her of his family. Of his father, Solostaran, who was often distracted, but never so distracted that he didn't have time to give his son an encouraging word or two. Of his mother, the lady Maearionelle, who was a kind, sweet woman with the wit like a knife. Of his little brother Gilthanas, who would hide from the servants set to watch them until they were driven to distraction, then come to them, chastised, to beg their forgiveness, only to do the same the day thereafter. Of his little sister, Lauralanthalasa, who so had charmed the entire court that she had them all wrapped around her tiny white fingers, which allowed her to do as she pleased in a manner most little boys did not.

He told her, sadly, of his new-born cousin, the half-elf Tanthalas who would have the heritage of a rapist and a murderer to bear when he grew up, and who would always know that his mother perished while she carried him into this world. Porthios seemed to think this unfair, unreasonable, yet Tress noticed that he did not seem to think that this could be in any way amended. She was not one for great philosophical debate – elves and humans could have that, for all she cared – so she said nothing about it.

* * *

Now, while Tress was a kender she was still more mature that Porthios, age-wise. She was thirty-one years old, and he was, if she was to be any judge of it, about the age for an elf that represented perhaps twenty years for a kender, and about seventeen for a human. And thus she had the advantage of being able to read certain effects she was having on him rather easily. She saw that he was attracted to her and also saw that he was ashamed of it. The latter puzzled her at first, but before long she recalled that elves and humans essentially regarded kender as children, and as far as she'd heard it was indeed true that being attracted to kender often was a symptom among their kind for the disease which sometimes made them attracted to children. She found individuals like that despicable, but Porthios was not one of them. Tress lacked the child-like frame that many of her kind possessed; now that she had her own clothes back, it was very clear from just one look at her that she was a full-grown woman, and Porthios _did_ look. A lot. No, he was not attracted to her as a sick man might be to a child, but rather as a young man would be towards an older woman.

That was rather nice.

So one day she decided that there was no reason not to ask about it, something that unsurprisingly left him mortified and stammering, incapable to form an answer yet unable to pretend he hadn't heard. After a few more moments of watching him blushing and mumbling, she rolled her eyes and deftly swung her left leg around him so that she sat straddling him, meeting his green-eyed gaze with her own direct brown eyes. And as he squirmed under her, but not enough to remove her – and she knew he could; he was very strong and she very light – she laughed.

"Oh, really, what could be the harm in it?" she demanded, eyes aglitter with mischief. "You want to, I can tell," she shifted somewhat, and he inhaled sharply, closing his eyes, "and I certainly don't mind the least. You," she touched his cheek lightly, "are a disgustingly handsome man."

"It is not," he began, and then was interrupted by yet another playful little movement of her hips. He moaned. "It is not," he tried again, "appropriate for a crown prince to be…" A short gasp, and now he responded, moving against her. "…to be dallying…"

"It is not appropriate for a crown prince to sneak out and associate with a wayward kender either," she murmured teasingly, slowly setting a rhythm for their bodies. He didn't reply, at least not in words, and she reflected that the joy of having fingers that went everywhere on their own was how easily they could undo someone's clothes in a matter of seconds. Soon they were naked, rolling on the grass, and the sun that shone kindly down at them seemed to be of the opinion that there was nothing wrong with some light dalliance on such a lovely day; it was as if it rejoiced, and so did the two on the grass, in a way none of them had ever quite experienced before.

* * *

And then, months went by, and as the autumns painted the aspens in gold, they had their first real argument.

"You need to come to the castle," Porthios said hotly, glaring at her. "You cannot stay out here!"

"If I go to the castle," Tress said patiently, as if speaking to someone of lesser understanding, "they will throw me out of Qualinesti. I'm not supposed to be here in the first place, remember?"

"They will not if I vouch for you," he repeated stubbornly; he had said the exact same words three times before already. Finally, she didn't feel she could hold in the obvious answer to them.

"They will throw me out _because_ you vouch for me, Prince of the Elves," she said rather sadly. "You said yourself, what we have done is not proper. They will want me out of sight and out of mind as soon as possible, before it gets out and people start questioning the man that is supposed to lead them one day. For the sake of his crown and his people, I don't think your father will have a choice."

"But it is _dangerous_ for you to stay here! I saw what happened to Tanthalas' mother!"

And immediately her mood changed as she laughed heartily at him, and he was starting to hate the way she never could stay serious for even the shortest of time. "Dangerous? Don't be silly, Porthios! We kender have been giving birth on the roads, in the mountains, hell, on the backs of dragons since as long as anyone, even elves, can remember." Her hand went to the gentle curve of her now swelling stomach. "If I thought it really _was_ dangerous, I would not stay here," she said sternly, but he could see the amused sparkle in her eye that told him that she was making fun of him, and he growled in frustration. She paid him no heed. "I know I will be fine. But I will not be," and here the sparkle died out, and she lowered her head, "if they throw me out. I won't be fine if they take me from you."

"And what will you do when the child is born?" he asked her harshly. "Stay here and hide, let our son or daughter grow up in a _cave_? I will not allow it to happen!"

She shrugged lightly, apparently unconcerned. "When the child is born, you can take me there. Do you think that your father, even for the sake of his kingdom, would banish his own grandchild after setting eyes on it even once?"

"No, but what would stop him from banishing you?"

"Take a mother from her only child?" she said, and there was something surprisingly dangerous in her tone. "I did not think _anyone_ with any kind of heart to speak of would do that, let alone the king of a race that is said to cherish life above all things."

To that he had no answer, and so he backtracked. "And how will you stop me from telling them about you? I could do it now, if I wanted to. I might already have done it."

"I can't stop you," she said in an infuriating sing-song voice, "but you won't do it because you know I'm right."

He opened his mouth to retort, but found no words, and so he turned on heel and stormed out of the clearing. But as soon as he was out of sight he stopped, listening. She was singing, a tune he recognized as a human lullaby, and he closed his eyes in pain. Why couldn't she understand? For a brief moment when she had told him she was with child, he had felt joy, but the next second the joy had been eaten by fear. He was to have a child! It was a terrible thing to be able to lose.

But she sang her songs and laughed at him, and he could see she was as happy as he could not allow himself to be, for fear of the hole that happiness would leave in him if he lost it. She didn't feel fear like he did, he reminded himself, and how he envied her for it. And he also knew she was right. Perhaps, with the babe in his arms, he would be able to convince his father that what he had done couldn't be undone, and any attempt to do this would be cruel and foolish. If Solostaran saw only a pregnant kendermaid, defiant and uncouth, it would be too easy for him to banish her. And Porthios could not let it happen. He _would_ not. And so the months passed…

* * *

She survived the winter, just as she had said she would. She had him block the cave mouth with branches and bring her blankets, fleeces and plenty of firewood. He still thought it looked like she lived like the most destitute pauper, but she claimed that it was a home fit for a king. Fit for a new prince or princess, too, she added, and stroked her belly with a laugh. He didn't reply, just checked for the fourth time that the sheltering branches in the cave mouth would hold.

And then the spring came to Qualinesti, brining flowers and soft, warm air, and just in time too, for now Tress could barely walk anymore. Porthios thought she looked a bit disproportionate, her belly swelling out far too much, but he consoled himself with that he'd never seen a pregnant woman up close before – children were too precious to the elves for a woman to even venture for long out of her home during the last months of the pregnancy – let alone a pregnant kender. And she still laughed, still sang her songs, and she told him it would be fine; she was feeling great, and the way the child kept kicking her suggested that he or she was feeling rather fine as well.

And so, as he arrived at the clearing one to find that it was empty, and she didn't answer when he called, he was mostly irritated, thinking that she was playing some kind of game with him. It was only when he found her lying in the cave, saw the mess of blood on the blankets, realized how white her face was… It was only then he realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

* * *

Drama galore! Oh my...


	2. The prince's paramour

**A/N:** Thanks. I've always loved Porthios as well XD

**

* * *

Chapter Two**

**The prince's paramour**

He did not see the servants throwing themselves out of his way as his horse thundered into the courtyard. He did not hear their shouts behind him as he shouldered the door open and barged inside. Only when he had reached his room and placed Tress on the bed, he turned around and noticed the servants clustering in the doorway, watching him with eyes that were large and dark and terrified.

"Fetch a midwife! Fetch Aïunchelasa! Please, just… help me, please…"

They continued staring for a few seconds, but then their prince raised his shaking hands towards them in a silent plea, and they saw that they were red with blood, and they scattered, shouting orders among each other.

Tress moaned, her head lolling back and forth over the pillow, but her eyes remained shut. When he called her name, she stirred, but otherwise she didn't respond. And blood was still pulsing from between her legs. When he looked closer, he saw that her hips looked odd, as if… as if something had broken…

"My prince?" Aïunchelasa, the royal family's private doctor, had arrived. He followed Porthios' gaze to Tress, and swore as his eyes took in the state of her. "By the Gods of old, what is this?" He was already starting to prepare his tools as he spoke.

"She… I don't know what happened, she was like this when I found her…"

"When did you find her?" the healer asked sharply.

"I… a quarter of an hour ago, perhaps. I do not know."

"And she's been losing blood since then?"

"She was bleeding when I found her, there was blood all around."

The healer groaned and started up his burner. "I'll do my best, but I have no idea if I'll be able to save her. And I'm quite sure that at least one of the babies will die."

"One of…" Porthios' eyes widened as the healer's words sunk in, what he had assumed just by looking at Tress, and _then_ he knew what had gone wrong. It was as if the earth cracked open beneath his feet and he was falling, falling…

"She's not having twins," he mumbled, numb.

"What? Speak sense, man, she must have more than one child in there!"

"No." Porthios shook his head. "It's just one child, but it's… it's the wrong size. It's too big for her body."

The healer's eyes narrowed. "Porthios? What is happening here? What do you know about this kender and her child?"

He closed his eyes, couldn't bear to see Aïunchelasa's expression. "It's mine," he said, his voice cracking. "The child's mine."

Since his eyes were closed he did not have a chance to avoid the stinging slap that the healer directed at his face. He gasped and took a step backward, staring at the older elf. He was now mixing herbs furiously. "You foolish boy!" the healer snarled, grinding the dry leaves as if he wished they were Porthios' head. "Did you not for a second consider what a half-elf child might do to such a small, frail body?"

It took Porthios a few seconds to realize that the healer was angry with him not because he had gotten a kender with child, but because through doing so, he'd hurt her. "I…" he gasped, grappling for words. "She… she said she was going to be fine. And she survived the winter like she said she would so I thought… she said…"

The healer, holding his scalpel over the now blue flame of the burner, groaned. "She's a kender, Porthios," he said, and his voice was nonetheless a lot gentler now. "She has no conception of danger, surely you know this?"

"I just… I thought women knew…" he said weakly, knowing full well how foolish he must sound.

"Has she given birth before?"

"No. No, I don't think… Oh no..." He sank down on the bed beside her, the shock finally giving way for full, heart-wrenching terror. He reached out to touch one of her quivering eyelids, and felt his own eyes burn with tears. "What… what have I done to her?" he whispered.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, and Porthios looked up through the tears to see the healer looking at him with pity. "You didn't know, boy," he said quietly. "It is unfortunate, but it cannot be helped now. And now the midwife is here to assist me, and you must leave."

"Leave? But I…" He turned back to look on Tress' pale face, feeling his heart contract with love and pain.

"You cannot help her now, boy," the healer admonished him. "You will only be in the way, and once we cut her open…"

Porthios paled, and then nodded silently. He grasped one of Tress' small hands in his and squeezed it, feeling the small, frail bones, like those of a bird. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it, before standing up and stumbling out of there.

* * *

His mother, the Lady Maearionelle, came rushing towards him as he left the room. "Porthios? What is happening? The servants were saying something about a- a child bleeding to death in your room, something absurd like… But my child, you are crying! What has happened?"

Porthios let himself be led to a couch and sank down on it, trembling and fighting for breath; it felt like something was squeezing his lungs. Laboriously, he tried to explain what had happened, but the words felt large and clumsy and every sentence came out jerky and incoherent.

"So… you found a kender outside our city? In a cave? And she was giving birth and having trouble so you rushed her here, is that it? That's terrible, honey, but why are you so very upset? Surely the sight of blood does not disturb you this much?"

"You don't understand," Porthios moaned, digging his nails into the flesh of his face. "It's… my fault… all my fault…"

"Don't be silly, dear, how could it be your fault?"

Porthios suddenly laughed, harshly and bitterly. "Isn't that obvious?" he told his mother, his soul cringing at the sound of the venom in his voice.

There was a long, terrible silence, and when Maearionelle spoke again, it was in a whisper. "You mean to tell me," she said, and he saw her throwing a furtive glance at the servants that stood clustered a way off, "that you… you are the _father_ of the child that she is…?"

Porthios couldn't reply, just hide his face behind his hands and nod slowly. She breathed in sharply, and then said nothing for a long while. Her voice was soft as she then said, "How did this come to happen?" but he couldn't tell if she was angry with him or not.

"We… have been seeing each other, mother. Since this spring. And I…" he choked on the words 'love her', as he envisioned her pale face, remembered the healer's words. He wiped more tears from eyes and then pummelled at the sofa hard in frustration.

"You… really managed to fall in love with a kender? Oh, my poor boy…" He realized that she was laughing, and felt his anger rise with terrifying speed. Yet when he looked up to shout at her, she was looking at him with sympathy and kindness, her eyes serious even though she still wore a faint, helpless smile. She reached out her hand and touched his face, killing his anger as if she had simply switched it off. "I am sorry for you, my son. What did Aïunchelasa say?"

"He said…" Porthios swallowed hard. "…he said he'd do his best."

"Oh, sweetheart…" She was shaking her head, her eyes sad. "I'm sorry."

He knew what she meant. That was exactly the same words Aïunchelasa had used about Tanthalas' mother.

"But there's still a chance that she might make it," he said stubbornly. "She said they heal quickly. She won't perish slowly like my aunt, she will get better as long as she survives now."

His mother nodded quietly, but her eyes spoke volumes. She didn't believe him. Neither did he. Looking away, Porthios wished that he had forced Tress to come to the city. Maybe, then, if Aïunchelasa had _seen_ her, maybe this wouldn't have happened…

"What is going on here?" Porthios' father, the Speaker of the Suns, stood in the door to his room, fixing his wife and son with a most impressive stare. Before Porthios even managed to do more than open his mouth, Maearionelle stood up, looking every bit as royal and impressive as her husband.

"Porthios has made a lover of his with child, and she is having some difficulties. She is in there." She gestured imperiously at the closed door behind them.

Solostaran's expression darkened and he shifted his gaze to Porthios. "Is this true, son?"

Porthios was staring at his mother. She hadn't told his father that Tress was a kender? She had spared him of that? He felt his heart swell, for the briefest of moments, with love and gratitude.

"Did you not hear me, Porthios? Is what your mother says true?"

He turned his gaze to his father, who was glaring at him in righteous anger. He nodded, hanging his shoulders in shame he didn't have to fake. "I am sorry, father. I know I have been foolish."

"I am very disappointed in you, Porthios. I expected you to know better. What now? Did you ever intend to marry the girl? I assume she is unsuitable, since you found it appropriate to hide this?"

Porthios mouthed silently, not knowing what to say. He didn't think he would mind marrying Tress, but he knew that it was in every way impossible. His father might be able to accept a girl of unsuitable heritage, maybe even a human girl, but a kender? Never.

Once again, he was saved by his mother. "Maybe it is best that we save _that _discussion for when we know whether the girl will survive?" she interjected pointedly.

Solostaran shot her a sharp gaze. "Is it that bad?" he asked. She nodded. He looked at his son again, searchingly this time, and seemed for the first time to notice the tears on his face, his pallor, his shaking hands. Shaking his head in mute exasperation he went up and put both his hands on his son's shoulders. "I hope it goes well, my son," he said kindly. "Do you love the girl?" Porthios nodded mutely. "Then I am sure something can be arranged," his father said benevolently. Porthios was quite sure he wouldn't be as considerate when he fully realized who Tress was, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

And right then, a thin wail was heard from the other end of the door to Porthios' room, and Solostaran smiled at his son. "I believe you are a father, Porthios."

* * *

Porthios entered the room cautiously, afraid of what he might see. Aïunchelasa was cleaning his hands on a white linen towel that was quickly coloured red. The midwife was on the other end of the room. She had a small, cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms and was looking at Porthios rather meaningfully.

Tress' eyes were still closed, her face almost the same shade as the pillow.

"Is she…?" He didn't manage anything more than that, his voice faltered and failed, and so he just gave Aïunchelasa a beseeching look.

"She is alive," the healer said, but his face said that it was only barely.

"How is she?"

"Her hips are shattered," Aïunchelasa said bluntly. "I have done what I can to fix them, but there is no way she is ever walking again. And if she catches a fever now, which she probably will, then I am not sure she has the strength to get well again, even with my help." He sighed, shaking his head at the pleading look in the young man's eyes. "I am sorry my prince, that is all I can say. I have given her a strong anesthetic and a soporific now, she will probably wake up in a couple of hours and…" he shrugged, "…we'll see then."

Porthios nodded. "And… and the child?"

Aïunchelasa smiled. "He's a strong, healthy child with lungs to match. If you think it is bad now," he added as the child gave another roar and Porthios winced with a smile, "just wait until he learns to talk. He'll make his mother proud."

Porthios nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat, and extended his hands toward the midwife in a silent gesture. Still watching him inquisitively, as if trying to figure out if anyone would believe her if she told them, she gently handed him his son.

He was smaller than an ordinary elven child, Porthios thought, but not by much. Not by enough to spare Tress' hips. But he was nonetheless absolutely perfect, with beautiful dark eyes that watched him sternly and beautiful small lips that quivered uncertainly, as if he was not quite sure if he needed to start crying at this startling change of events. Porthios smiled at him through his tears. "Hello there, little prince," he whispered, not caring that the midwife sent him a scandalized look. "Welcome to the world." He looked up at Aïunchelasa, once more gnawed by worry. "And you are sure he is fine?"

"Perfectly," said the healer promptly, smiling a smile that he saved specifically for worried parents. "It has been noted before, by several healers, that crossbreed children tend to be remarkably healthy, in fact. Well, at least physically. And with a kind upbringing he should be in excellent health in every way."

Porthios nodded, and then swallowed hard. "Well, I should go show my parents their grandchild, I suppose."

"Good luck," Aïunchelasa said dryly.

* * *

"Oh, but he is beautiful," his mother sighed with a soft look on her face as Porthios handed the child to her. She laughed, her eyes full of tears. "And won't he be a charmer when he grows up, too. We will all spoil him rotten."

Solostaran, meanwhile, was watching Porthios carefully. "The girl? Is she well?"

"For now," Porthios replied heavily. "She's…"

"She won't live?"

"We don't know. She's terribly hurt."

Solostaran threw the boy in his wife's arms an incredulous look. "But the child is so tiny! Even smaller than Lauralanthalasa. Something must have gone very wrong. Did he come out the wrong way round?"

Porthios received a sharp look from his mother, and knew she would not allow him to keep stalling. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "The child is tiny to us, father, but to her he was far too big. Her hips broke from the strain."

Solostaran frowned. "But that means she must be… _No one _can be that small unless…" And then he fell silent as the truth sunk in. When he spoke again, his voice sounded very old and very tired. "A kender, my son? You have a child with a kender?"

"Yes father."

"But… but _how_? How could you… How did that even come to be?!"

"The usual way, I imagine," Solostaran's wife said rather dryly. As her husband frowned at her in shock and disapproval, she shook her head tiredly at him. "Oh, my dear, my dear; _think_ for a moment. Do you really think our son would bed a kender unless he truly loved her? He is not sick, he has no unnatural yearnings. He fell in love with the girl, as unlikely as that might seem to us. And then he was careless, which was dumb but forgivable, and she was careless too, which is in her very _nature_, and this is the result." She looked pointedly at the child in her arms. "It isn't an altogether bad one, do you think?"

Solostaran brushed a weary hand over his eyes. "But the people, Mae," he said in a worn-out voice. "What do you think the people will say of a crown prince who took a kender, of all the races on Krynn, to his bed?"

"Well, quite frankly, dear, I don't think they _have _a say in this," she said sharply, her arms circling the now sleeping babe protectively. "But that will have to wait, anyway. Because right now the poor creature may very well be dying in there, and I do not think it is right of us to discuss her in such a manner after putting herself in that danger for our grandson. What do you say, Solostaran? Do _you_ think that is fair?"

Faced both by his wife's ire and his son's quiet pleading, the Speaker of the Suns had no choice but to give up. "Very well then. We'll save it for later. And I _do_ hope she gets better, poor thing," he said to his son, his voice kind but still very tired, "but I confess I have no idea what we are going to do if she does."

* * *

"Tress? How are you feeling?"

"The healer said I've got broken hips. Never had that before. Ow. As a first experience, I cannot say that I like it much. Still, I suppose it might grow on me, at least if it stops – ow – hurting so damn much."

"You're not being very funny."

"Maybe I managed to break my sense of humour as well then. Actually, that's an idea. Where is the sense of humour located? I might as well be the hips, right? After all, a lot of other nice things seem to be located there." She gave him a tired smile and waggled her eyebrows, apparently with great effort.

Porthios sighed. "I would ask you not to talk so much, but I have a feeling you wouldn't listen, would you?"

"Do I ever listen to you?" she wondered with a small chuckle that ended with a grimace of pain. "Actually, ironically enough, if I was in the habit of listening to you, I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place, isn't that so, Mr. 'Dalliance is not appropriate for a crown prince', hmm?"

Porthios felt his cheeks go warm. "You are aware of that we are not alone in here, right?" he said in a choked voice.

She giggled tiredly. "Of course I am. I hope I just embarrassed you in front of your parents. Did I? Please say yes."

"…Yes."

"Good. At least I have some small way of giving back at you for this."

"Tress, I am so, so sorry, I…" Porthios begun with tears once more burning in his eyes, but she cut him short.

"Oh, don't be stupid, elf prince! It wasn't as if it was your idea to take a tumble in the grass in the first place" – Porthios grimaced in embarrassment and she grinned at him before continuing – "and it certainly wasn't your fault that I was an idiot and brushed off the fact that I more or less resembled a narwhale those last months. I just thought you were supposed to look like that; I suppose I didn't actually know, as such. But I didn't want you to worry any more than you already did, because you were worrying a _lot_, you know, so I told you that everything was just fine and that I knew this, which wasn't technically true but I couldn't see really what harm would come out of it. Which makes me an idiot, and you completely blameless." She looked a shade paler at the end of this rant, and had to draw several deep breaths, closing her eyes. Porthios leaned closer, his own face going white with worry.

"You know, miss, perhaps talking a bit less would be good for your young man's nerves as well as your physique," Aïunchelasa suggested from the other end of the room, something that was followed by some nervous laughter from Porthios' parents.

"Oh, all right then," Tress grumbled, opening her eyes. And then, after a short pause, she said, "So, can I see my child now?"

Porthios nodded mutely, and his mother approached with a nervous smile to hand over the babe that was now sleeping the sleep of one that is terminally well-fed on goat's milk and wrapped in enough silk to clothe several noble women. "Here's your son," she said softly.

"Ye gods, you _are_ huge," Tress told the boy severely. "No wonder I didn't manage to push you out. Ah, but I see that you are going to have your father's eyes."

"His eyes are closed," Porthios pointed out, amused. "And we won't know what colour they will be for quite a while yet."

"I was talking about that soppy expression you always seem to wear."

"Which you know he's going to inherit just by looking at him?" Despite himself, Porthios couldn't help but to smile fondly.  
"Yes, of course." She closed her eyes, drawing a quiet breath. "And now... I am a bit tired, actually. I don't know what's with me today, really I don't. But I think I need to... to rest a bit."

He nodded and took the child from her now limp arms. Aïunchelasa rushed forward to help Tress drink some blood-replenishing concoction before she fell asleep, and Porthios felt that it was better for him to retreat, holding on to his son like a protective charm, or possibly an anchor. His mother and father said nothing as the three of them went into the hall, but he knew they had been holding a long conference consisting of pointed glances and shifting expressions for the whole time that they had been in the room.

"She seems… rather healthy, considering," his mother ventured after a while in a hopeful tone, but Porthios shook his head.

"No. Compared to what she's usually like…" He tried, and failed, to clear his throat of the lump that was blocking it. "Compared to that it's like she's half dead…"

"Well, sickness always appears worse to the most concerned party," his father said pragmatically. "It is true that for a kender, she seemed very subdued, but I do not think you should give up hope on her yet. Aïunchelasa is very skilled."

Porthios nodded, smiling weakly, and was about to say something when his son decided that this was quite enough of sleep for one go, and let out a healthy wail of childish rage.

* * *

It seemed for a while that Tress was going to have a miraculous recovery, and then the fever struck. After that, she seemed only to grow thinner and paler, and soon she was only awake for short periods of time, before once more passing out. When she was awake she was often confused, sometimes even hallucinating, but for a short while during the second day of her illness, she was conscious enough to speak to for a short while. She asked for Porthios, and he came to her with downcast eyes, not wanting to see the withering corpse on the bed that had been his friend and lover.

"You remember…" she gasped weakly, "…told me about... that cousin of yours?" She coughed pathetically, and then hissed in pain. "That Tanthalas kid?" Porthios nodded. "I wanted to talk about him."

"You really shouldn't…"

"Oh, hush, it's not like… like it matters much. I'm… pretty much done for." She smiled cheekily, and he noticed with a stab of alarm that her teeth looked like they would fall out any second. Malnutrition, he had heard, did that. And Aïunchelasa had told him that she had been throwing up everything he'd tried to feed her. He swallowed hard, blinking tears from his eyes. "I'm sorry I can't feel… like you are feeling now," she continued. "I've tried being frightened but I… can't." She coughed again, her eyes watering with the effort. "A pity. I would've liked to know what it's like to be afraid before I die."

"You wanted to talk about Tanthalas," Porthios prompted, tortured by her casual way of talking about the way life seemed to be slipping away from her every second. She blinked blearily at him, for a moment confused, and then she nodded. He tried not to notice that her eyes seemed to be covered in some kind of yellow secretion.

"You told me what a terrible… life he would have, remember?"

"Yes?"

"If our child… has a life that… in _anything_… resembles what you told me about…" she fixed him for a moment with a surprisingly sharp gaze, "…I will come back from the dead and I will… _rip_… you a…new one… Do you understand?"

Porthios nodded, smiling and wiping his tears away. "I promise. I'll take care of him. I'll make sure he never feels unwanted."

"Good," she smiled lovingly at him, and Porthios swallowed painfully.

"And… about his name?"

She lifted a hand a few inches and waved it tiredly. "Name him something elfish. Your names always… always sound so fancy. I haven't even… managed to pronounce my own… doctor's name once… And if that isn't fancy, then I don't know what."

"How about… how about Miranthalias?"

She grinned tiredly. "I like that… And now, I think I need to sleep…"

And the few times she woke up after that, she did nothing but ask for him and her son. At one time she asked to see Porthios' parents as well, and gave them a feeble 'Hello,' before immediately passing out. Within a few hours of that, she was dead.

* * *

**A/N: **Ouch. That hurt. Sadness.


	3. A well kept secret

**A/N:** Thank you so much! You know, I didn't think I'd get _any_ reviews at all on this one. I'm pleasantly surprised and really grateful!

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* * *

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**Chapter Three**

**A well-kept secret**

* * *

Porthios had never meant to grow bitter. He knew he had; or at least sometimes, during brief moments of clarity, he was aware of it. But mostly, it was easier to pretend, easier to imagine that the way he was acting was justified. It was easier to think that he had been a fool who had now learned his lesson, than to face the fact that he was just resentful and angry, and that this made him act like the worse kind of hypocrite.

It had started with the guilt, the self-loathing, and had rapidly escalated into fruitless fury at the world. _Why _had it turned out like this? He's only wanted this one thing, this one person, and she had been taken away from him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _right_! The world couldn't be like that, it just couldn't. There had to be some kind of an explanation, some kind of _reason_, because if the world was just… just arbitrarily cruel… well, what was the point of living then?

That was when he started telling himself that it was punishment, dealt out to him from some higher justice because he had disobeyed his parents, kept secrets from them; because he had failed in his responsibilities, because he had bedded someone of another race. These thoughts started as nothing more than a way for him to punish himself, to make himself suffer for something he still saw as his responsibility, his fault… But as his despair grew deeper he started to believe in them. And that was when his soul started to harden, that was when he started growing bitter; bitter and judgmental toward all around him. Mistakes like his should not be allowed to be repeated, he told himself. Innocents suffered when people made stupid mistakes, so he had to make sure that no one close to him ever acted like he did, rashly and impulsively, thinking more with his body and his heart than with his mind and soul. In his soul, he told himself, he had known all along what his responsibilities were, but he had ignored them. That was an unforgivable flaw, and thus he couldn't forgive anyone who showed signs of the same weakness.

And then there was Tanis. Without ever intending to, Porthios found that he had grown to resent the boy. Every time he was close, he was reminded of his own mistakes, of what he by now had come to regard as his one, great flaw. And so he grew short-tempered and harsh toward the boy, telling himself that he was teaching the boy to behave properly so that no one would get hurt from his foolish conduct, but his heart knew the true story.

The simple truth was that Porthios missed his son. Every day, every hour, every single slow, agonizing _minute_ that he was away from Miran, he missed him. And he so very rarely saw his son that it was like a constant ache in his heart.

He had vowed to keep true to his promise to Tress, to make sure Miran never felt unwanted, and so he had taken the only course of action that had seemed realistic. He had taken Miran away from Qualinost, letting the boy live in a country house owned by his family. There, away from the scrutiny of court and the people that would have tortured him endlessly over his mixed heritage… there he was safe. He had servants there to take care of him, servants loyal to the family and sworn to secrecy. He had the forest around him to amuse himself in. And his father came to visit him whenever he had time. It was just that Porthios had so very many duties to attend to, and because he was so terrified in failing in them he sometimes, without even knowing it, failed in the most important duty anyone can have; that as a parent to your child.

His father and mother helped greatly, for they too visited Miran in his solitary confinement, and it was true that they doted on his just as much as they would have on a fully elven grandchild. Possibly more, because they felt sorry for him, living all alone with only the servants to take care of him. But Miran just smiled and said that he was fine, really, and his father and grandparents thought that well, he was half kender after all, and kender _were_ remarkably impervious to what other people would see as hardships.

In Solostaran and Maearionelle, this was to be excused, but Porthios really should have known better. He should have recognised the signs. He should have remembered what Tress had told him, all those years ago.

"_...I didn't want you to worry any more than you already did, because you were worrying a lot, you know, so I told you that everything was just fine..."_

* * *

Miran had wondered, when he was younger, why all the maids that took care of him spoke of his father as 'that poor boy'. He hadn't understood why everyone felt so sorry for him. After all, his father was _clearly_ the most wonderful and powerful person in the world, so why _should_ anyone feel sorry for him?

And then as he grew up, learning new words at incredible speed, he learned why. It was because of _him. _Everybody felt sorry for his father because of _him_. They talked about what a shame it was, such a promising young boy being led astray when he was young and vulnerable, and now he was saddled with this child, this half-blooded young boy, this – and here they lowered their voices, as if it was a bad word – _kender_. It must torture him so, they said, shaking their heads in compassion. But they didn't blame him, oh no, anyone could make mistakes, and he was so young, after all. But the poor boy, he had so many duties, and yet he still made time to visit this wayward, troublesome child. Yes, crown prince Porthios was truly an angel, and it was such a _pity_ that he should be stuck with taking care of that ungrateful son of his.

Thus Miran learned that his father didn't really want to visit him. He never thought to doubt what the servants said. Why would they lie? They _liked_ his father, that was obvious. So his father was just making a sacrifice coming there to meet him; he was taking responsibility for a mistake he had made, nothing more. Miran _did_ know his father loved him, no one could ever have convinced him otherwise, but the servants' words combined with the sad way his father always gazed at him had made it all too clear to him what a disappointment he was. And it wasn't that strange, really. After all, Miran _knew_ he was a bad son. The servants frequently let him know. Whenever a silver fork was found in his pocket, they told him. Whenever he talked too much, they told him. Whenever he fretted in his confinement, they told him. Because they wouldn't let him go out, heavens no, just imagine what he might do if he was allowed to run loose! Or maybe he would just run away, and break his poor father's heart. It was better if he stayed in the house.

Of course, whenever Porthios was there, they would take walks in the vast park that was connected to the mansion, and on those occasions Miran pondered if he perhaps should let it slip that he wished he would be allowed out more often. Just once every week, maybe? But his father came there so rarely; he didn't want to bother him with complaints on those few, precious occasions. What if his father thought that he was discontented with him, even after all he had done for Miran? What if Porthios thought he was ungrateful, what if he thought that Miran didn't love him and care about him as much as he did for Miran? It was something that he just couldn't risk happening.

So he kept his mouth shut, because that's what people kept telling him to do.

He also tried his very best to be a better son. He forced himself to be silent for hours on end, right to the point when the servants started to complain that he was rude and wilful, not answering to their questions. He tried to not dart about too much, to sit still and be content with just reading a book or playing board games against himself. He tried not to complain, even when if felt like he would suffocate if he didn't get out. He even tried, he really did, to keep stuff from slipping into his pockets, but it was impossible! He didn't know how it happened, what it was he did, so how could he stop it? Once, he even slammed both hands in a door to see if that would help. He was of course punished for it, but for a whole blissful week he could barely dress himself with his swollen, bandaged hands, and he certainly couldn't steal with them. But as soon as they started to get better, it started happening again. And now they all kept a watchful eye on him to make sure he wouldn't hurt himself again, because what would his poor father say if he came on a visit and found Miran in such a state? They couldn't believe that the boy could be so selfish, they really couldn't. And no one listened when he said he'd just tried to help.

* * *

Today however, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't sit still even for two seconds, because his father had sent word that he was coming for a visit. _And_ grandmother and grandfather were coming too. The only thing that kept him from chattering wildly all morning was the threat that if he didn't shut up for two seconds and let people hear their own thoughts, he would be grounded for a week. Since he wasn't allowed to go out, grounded meant being locked in his room, and if Miran had to suffer through that even one more time, he was sure he was going to go insane. _They _didn't know what it was like, that much was obvious. As he understood it, elves – full, proper elves – could stay in one room for hours at end, doing basically _nothing,_ without even showing signs of boredom. He didn't know how they did it. Didn't they feel their bodies start _screaming_ for movement, didn't their heads start aching at the lack of new impressions? Was there _no one_ who knew what it was like for him?

Apparently, yes.

Still, nothing could keep his mood down for long today, not even having to force himself to keep silent for hours. Because as soon as his father got there, everything was alright. The servants couldn't even stop him from sprinting down the stairs and throwing himself into his father's arms, not as long as Porthios just laughed and easily swung Miran's short, lithe form around, ruffling his hair before letting him go. Of course, Miran reined himself in after that, so that his father wouldn't think he couldn't behave himself properly. He bowed politely to both of his grandparents, and then turned back and did the same to his father. "I'm glad you've come," he said, and then bit his tongue to keep back the storm of questions that threatened to burst from his lips.

Porthios looked slightly bemused at this new formality, but the Speaker and his wife nodded and smiled in approval, exchanging glances that said it was amazing how well the boy had turned out. Sure, sometimes the servants came with veiled complaints, but considering the boy's background it wasn't odd if he had certain... well, problems. And all things considered, he handled these problems remarkably well. Certainly much better than Tanthalas did, even though reason said it should be the other way around. Then again, they had to admit that Miran had it far easier than Tanis, being sheltered as he was from the judgemental manners of the court.

One of the servants announced that tea was ready, and Miran bit back a groan just in time. Sitting still, speaking only when spoken to, and trying to avoid pocketing the monogrammed tea-spoons? Great. Wonderful. But he would have to suffer through it, for the sake of the walk in the park later.

It wasn't that bad, actually. His father and grandparents kept asking him questions, and while he had to check his tongue so that it didn't run away with him, at least answering to their questions kept his mind off that he would do anything to be allowed to stretch his legs. The only blunder occurred when he was talking about a book he'd recently read about philosophy, and Porthios suddenly leaned over and kindly fished a linen napkin out of his son's pocket. Miran was of course mortified, blushing and mumbling a long string of excuses, but Porthios just laughed it off and his grandparents exchanged knowing smiles, and he was so grateful that they were so understanding that he vowed to himself that he would sit there for _hours_ without stirring if that was what they wanted.

Luckily, it wasn't. Soon thereafter Porthios stood up and asked Miran with a wink if he wanted to take a stroll with him. Miran bounced happily to his feet, then remembered himself and turned to his grandparents, forcing himself to assure them that if they'd rather stay in, he could stay with them.

Solostaran chuckled kindly. "It's quite alright, boy. You go with your father, and we'll stay here and enjoy our tea. Perhaps we will join you later." His wife nodded her assent, and Miran smiled gratefully at them before following his father out into the garden.

The air felt wonderful he thought with a blissful sigh as he strolled along on his father's side, checking himself so that he wouldn't walk too fast out of excitement. No, walking at a slow and measured pace like his father was the right way to do it. And as long as he was allowed to be outside, that was quite enough for him.

"How are your lessons in commonspeak going?" Porthios asked for a while when they stopped to admire the water lilies in the largest pond.

"Well, my teacher told me they are going far too well," Miran replied in perfect Common, smiling impishly at his father, who grinned back.

"I hear that. You have a gift for tongues, my son."

"'m supposed to, right?" Miran said, shrugging. "Cause of mother."

"That does not lessen the gift, nor my pride in you," Porthios said gently, turning to view his son.

"I suppose not. It's just that I'm so terrible at everything else." Miran sighed and picked up a stone, flinging it into the pond. "I... I try to, I do, but I just can't concentrate. I'm hopeless."

Porthios crouched down a little so that he could meet Miran's gaze. "You think this is because of your heritage?"

"I _know_ it is. Every time someone tries to explain sums to me, my head goes numb. That can't be normal, right?"

Porthios stared at his son in surprise for a few seconds, and then he burst out laughing. "My dear son," he said fondly, placing his hands on Miran's shoulders, "I shall let you in on a secret. I am also terrible at maths. So that is something you can't blame your mother for. In fact, if anyone should have a blame for that, it would have to be me."

Miran at first returned his father's gaze with an astonished expression on his face, and then he started laughing too, both because his father had a very infectious laugh and because he was so delightfully relieved. At least that was something he'd obviously been worrying about in vain. He wondered if, even as his father slung an arm around his shoulders and playfully tried to unbalance him, if he should say something about the creeping sensations that started occurring all over his body whenever he was forced to sit still for more than ten minutes. He was pretty certain that was _not_ something that had anything to do with his elven heritage, but now that his father was in such a good mood he did not want to risk spoiling it, so he said nothing.

After they had wandered for a while longer, speaking idly of everything and nothing, and Porthios had commented – to Miran's great joy – that he should have to send someone there to teach him about plants, he then halted and looked thoughtful for a moment, as if considering how to broach as certain subject. When he thereafter turned his gaze to view Miran, his son noticed that he was looking rather amused, in a wry sort of way.

"My father suggested – or rather, hinted at – that perhaps I ought to tell you certain facts about growing up, but I have a feeling that you already have all of that figured out for yourself. Am I correct?"

Miran first frowned in confusion, and then blushed and laughed at the same time when he understood what his father meant. "Oh, _that_. No, that wasn't very hard to figure out. After all, I am a bastard," he shrugged and grinned, "and as soon as I figured out what _that_ meant, the rest wasn't hard to work out."

To his surprise, his father's gaze suddenly became sharp and cold. "Who was it that called you a bastard?" he demanded to know.

Miran avoided his gaze. "Oh, it was someone who used to work here long before. I don't remember her name," he mumbled, and detested the fact that he had to lie. The truth was that they _all_ called him a bastard, but not to his face. He only knew that they did because he frequently used his superior hearing to eavesdrop on them, and he didn't want his father to know that he habitually did such a low, sneaky thing. Besides, he didn't want them all to be fired and replaced, as he suspected they would if he told his father the truth. Partly because people had come and gone for a long time, and they all had basically been the same, so it wouldn't make a difference, but also partly because they weren't really _bad_ towards him, some were even kind, it was just that _they_ all knew what a failure of a son he was, and treated him accordingly. And he couldn't really fault them for that, could he?

Porthios gazed at him for a while longer, and then let the matter drop. "Very well, then. So there aren't any questions you'd like to ask me?" Miran _did_ notice that his father sounded a trifle relieved, and stifled a grin.

"No, I don't think so."

"No one you are... uhm, _interested_ in? I hope you don't think I am prying, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but if you do... I'll listen."

Miran had to smile at his father's embarrassment. "No. There's no one. I guess that's a bit weird, apparently I'm of an age when I'm supposed to be thinking about things like that, but... well, I _do_," he admitted, feeling his cheeks burn, "but not about anyone in particular." Miran was far too embarrassed to say anything about... well, that _other_ thing he'd noticed about himself, and besides, it didn't really seem important. No one was going to be interested in _him_ anyway.

"I see," Porthios said, and once more he sounded slightly relieved. Well, he must also know that no one would look twice at Miran except perhaps to tell him to keep quiet. "And there's nothing else? Nothing at all?"

Miran was going to repeat his no, when he realised that there _was_ one thing he'd never dared ask his father before. Well, now seemed like a good time. At least it was connected to the subject. "Well, there was one thing. Sort of."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's about mother..." Even though Miran wasn't looking at his father, he could feel his gaze shift to him with sudden intensity. "I just wanted to know... Were you in love with her?" He heard his father inhale sharply, as if Miran had just hit him, and hurried on before he could say anything. "I just wanted to know, that is all. Because you don't really talk about her, and I understand if you don't want to, it's just that everyone else seems to think you _didn't _love her, and it's... I mean, I won't be upset if you didn't, right, I just wanted to know!"

He heard his father sigh and start walking. Miran lifted his head, terrified that he'd angered his father and that he was leaving. But Porthios had just walked over to an ornamental sundial and was leaning tiredly against it, staring dully down at the beautifully carved digits.

"Dad?" Miran took a few steps to follow him, and then hesitated, hanging his head. "Dad, I'm sorry. I should have known it would upset you. I just..."

"You wanted to know. Of course you did. Come here, son." Porthios held out his left arm, and as Miran came closer he drew him into a rough hug. Confused, but thankful that his father wasn't angry with him, he leaned his head against the fine, fragrant wool of Porthios' jacket. "I'm sorry I haven't told you much about your mother," his father said after a while. "But the reason why I haven't is... well, it is that I did love her. Very much so, Miranthalias, and I don't want you to ever forget that. When she died..." He said nothing more, but his grip around Miran's shoulders tightened in an almost frantic motion.

Suddenly, not knowing why, Miran found himself crying, clutching spasmodically at his father's jacket until his fingers hurt. "I'm sorry," he mumbled wretchedly. "I really didn't want to upset you. It's just that... well, I miss her too. I know I didn't know her, but... well, it's selfish but I wish that... that there was someone who... understood..."

His father said nothing, but he wrapped both arms around Miran and held him close. They stood like that for a long time, and then they both turned and walked back to the house, neither of them saying a word.

* * *

**A/N: **And then we fast-forward some mooooore...


	4. Escape

**A/N:** Thank you! Lots of hugs to you!

I'm afraid it's not getting much more cheerful, though...

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* * *

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**Chapter Four**

**Escape**

* * *

When Miran was old enough to consider himself an adult, even if no one else did, things were a bit different. For one thing, his father almost never came there anymore. Miran knew why, even if that didn't stop him from being angry with him; Porthios had told him that the world was more unstable now and that he was needed constantly at the palace; so was the Speaker. So the only one that came around from time to time was Mae, and while Miran loved his grandmother dearly, he still missed his father.

And he had another problem as well: He was getting worse.

Not at the stealing or the talking so much, but even though being locked inside used to make him fretful before, it was now literally driving him insane. He couldn't get a full night's sleep anymore, but woke in the middle of the night with his heart racing and a truly horrible feeling gripping his heart. Being only half kender, he _had_ experienced fear a few times, though it didn't come easy to him. This, however, was _not_ fear, but something much worse, something that made him sweat and shake, his breath coming in short, laboured gasps until blue stars dance before his vision. And while awake he was starting to get weird ticks, like opening and closing his hands rapidly, or tensing his leg muscles until they cramped. After a while, he also started hyperventilating spontaneously during the day; sometimes it went on until he passed out. But worst of all were the fits of rage. _Anything_ could set them off. And while in the middle of one, he would thrash about wildly and scream, until the servants had to hold him down and gag him. And then, of course, he would be locked in his room like an unruly child, which only made everything even worse.

He had no idea what it was that was doing this to him, and even if he had dared ask, even if someone had felt inclined to answer him, they probably couldn't have. There was no one who could know what effects Wanderlust would have on someone who could feel fear _and _who had been locked up inside all of his life. No one except Miran himself. And he was a bit too caught up in the middle of it to connect the dots. Besides, since no one had apparently considered it an option, no one had even explained the concept of Wanderlust to him.

That was a great mistake, and one that Porthios would come to regret dearly. Because even if he tried, really did try, Miran only managed to stand it for a month. One month of no sleep, unprovoked rage and panic attacks, and he had had enough.

He ran away.

* * *

Porthios was just going to bed when a messenger boy arrived with a letter from Miran. He considered waiting with it until the morning, but he was already feeling guilty enough about not seeing his son as often as he should, and so he sat down by candlelight to read it. It had _'Dad'_ scrawled hastily on it in his son's messy handwriting, and when he broke the wax seal and unfolded it, he was surprised and a bit disappointed to see that it was only a very short letter. Rubbing a hand over his eyes and then blinking a couple of times to help himself closed, he leaned closed over the ink-blotched paper to read.

"_Father,_

_When I asked you why I didn't live with you and your family, you said that it was to keep people from being cruel to me. You said you had made a promise to mom to never have me feel unwanted._

_In the true manner of the elven son I've always tried be, I only have one question for you: How do you think it makes me feel to grow up, locked in this abysmal building?_

_While I appreciate that sometimes you have to put your duty before your family, I cannot help but wonder if you at least could get your royal arse out here once in a while so that I could be allowed to leave this damn prison at least once every half-year or so. Is it really too much to ask for a simple walk in the park every now and then so that I for once could be allowed to breathe in something that isn't the stuffy, second-hand air in this luxurious cell you've locked me in?_

_Well, I've had enough. I'm leaving. If you sometime in the future feel like you'd like to have a son rather than a goldfish, feel free to try to find me. But I don't think you will._

_/Miran_

For a long while, Porthios did nothing but to stare at the letter in horror. What did Miran mean? He couldn't be _leaving_! And why was he so angry? Porthios hadn't locked him anywhere, what was he talking about? He was allowed to go wherever he wanted in the forests surrounding the man-

Or was he? Porthios suddenly realised with the full, terrible detail of a panicked mind how eager Miran always was for their walks in the park, the way he always tried to linger outside for as long as possible... But that was ridiculous! The servants had no reason to lock the boy in!

No reason? No, no reason other than that he was half kender. But that would be quite enough for most elves.

But if they had, why hadn't Miran _told_ him? But as he envisioned his son as he remembered him from his visits, watching him eagerly, hanging on his every word, he knew the answer to that question as well. Miran was always so eager to please, and it was easy to imagine that he would've kept quiet out of fear of angering his father – if he now seriously thought that it was on Porthios' orders he'd been locked in. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to seem demanding. Porthios couldn't really say that he'd made a secret of that his visits there always took time from his duties.

And the scathing words about the elven son he'd always tried to be... Porthios had never wanted his son to be anything else than what he was: The product of his and Tress' love, and a son of both his mother and father. But had he ever actually _told_ him? When he'd been so ashamed for every single thing that found its way into his pockets, when he'd been so deeply embarrassed when they noticed him fidgeting and asked if he was getting bored... Porthios couldn't recall ever telling him that no one would blame him for acting on instincts that he was born with. But he'd never thought he'd had to. He'd just... well, he'd _assumed_ that Miran knew. He'd never thought, even for a moment, that his son had ever had any reason to doubt that his father wanted him just the way he was. Porthios had never wanted Miran to be an elf. He wanted Miran to be Miran. Tanthalas would have called him a hypocrite for this, but who isn't a hypocrite when it comes to their own child?

Oh, yes, Tanthalas... Porthios could see the same impotent fury, the same jaw-clenching resentment in this letter now as he had every time Tanthalas had turned his eyes upon him. Was there also the hatred that he was sure Tanthalas had harboured for him? He really couldn't tell. All he could tell from this letter was that Miran was hurting – hurting because of him – and that, just like Tanthalas, he had left Qualinesti.

But unlike Tanthalas, Miran didn't seem to have any plans on ever coming back.

* * *

Porthios went to his mother, because he had nowhere else to go. He'd kept from everyone, even his closest friends, where it was that he went once every month. Or rather, where he used to go every month. It was now five months since he had seen Miran, and it looked like he would never see him again.

Mae looked up from her needlework when her son entered, and then flew to her feet, spools of silken thread tumbling from her lap as she rushed to his side. He just stood there in her doorway as if struck by lightning, tears streaking his features as he sobbed and wept like a child.

"My son! What has happened? Is-" fear contorted her face as the horrible thought dawned on her "-is it Miranthalias? What has happened? Is he hurt? For the sake of the gods, child, speak!"

Word by painful word she forced the story out of him, and when he was done she pressed her lips hard together and turned away from him; not wanting to be harsh to her son when he was hurt and lost, she swallowed her admonishing words. For now.

"Say it, mother," Porthios said brokenly, sinking down on the floor. "I know I have failed as a father, and it does me no good to be spared."

"Nonsense," his mother said sharply, turning on her son and glaring at him. Apparently what Porthios was in need of _was _in fact not mercy, but a good telling off, and the way she was feeling right now, she was more than willing to give it to him. "What kind of self-pitying creature says that? Because it sure as the depths of the Abyss cannot be the son I raised! You are no failed father, and saying that you are is only you trying to make it easy for yourself. You have been foolish, that I admit, but we have all been foolish when it comes to the boy. And now we have to amend our folly. I assume that you have already sent members of the Royal Guard to track him down?"

Porthios stared in shock at his mother, and then shook his head slowly. Mae made an impatient little sound. "You silly boy. Very well, that will have to be arranged. And you should go find your father and tell him too. It's his grandchild as well as mine. Well, what are you sitting there for? Step to it, Porthios, or so the gods help me you are going to wish that I never gave birth to you!"

And with that she whirled around and was gone.

* * *

Even though she had made sure to get word to both the Royal Guard and every scout and border watcher they had out in the Qualinesti forest, Mae never actually believed that they would find her grandson. A kender who didn't want to be found simply wasn't found, and while Miran was only half kender, one half was probably going to be enough. However, she just as strongly believed that it would be inexcusable not to try, and so the forest was soon enough full of people looking for "a very short young elf with brown hair and green eyes". After all, it was almost impossible to detect Miran's heritage if one did not know where to look for, and she still felt it was advisable not to let the whole of the search patrol know that the boy they were looking for was half kender. They already speculated enough on their own as it was. After all, Porthios was out there too, searching with them, and that made people wonder why this young elven boy was so important that their crown prince would be looking for him. Already rumours of an illegitimate son were flying around – it didn't take much to trigger people's imagination, it appeared. Mae truly had no idea what they were going to say to these rumour-mongers if they found Miran, but unfortunately that never even became an issue. She was, eventually, proven right. Miran was nowhere to be found, and after many days of fruitless search, Solostaran managed to convince his son that it was hopeless. Miranthalias was in all probability far away by then, he said, and looking further was foolish and futile. And a heart-broken Porthios had to agree.

* * *

Miran sank down on a rickety stool and ducked his head as one of the inn's customers went past. He'd learned soon enough that people didn't take kindly to people with elfish blood outside Qualinesti, and his kender-elf gene-mix unfortunately just made him look like a rather short elf; he wasn't short enough to pass for a kender, and besides, the almond shape of his eyes gave him away right away. Not that people seemed to be taking kindly to kender either, but at least they only seemed to regard them as a bloody nuisance rather than with the cold, resentful suspicion that they seemed to harbour for everyone and anyone with elven blood in their veins.

He waved for the barkeep, slipping him some money and asking him for something to eat and some ale. At least innkeepers and the like didn't mind elves in their establishments as long as they paid in good coin.

Miran sighed, fingering the small silken pouch which contained all of his money. He had felt bad about stealing the food money from the mansion kitchen, but he'd hardened his heart and told himself that it was a small payback for all his years of imprisonment. The servants wouldn't suffer; if they told his father he'd probably replace the money, and thus Miran was really only taking money out of his own father's pocket. And didn't Porthios deserve that, after what he'd done to him?

Well, yes. But while it was probably true that he deserved _that_, Miran couldn't bring himself to believe that he'd actually deserved that resentful, horrible letter he'd written. Groaning at the memory, he buried his face in his hands, slumping over the bar disk. He'd written that letter during a somewhat more subdued spell of rage, and sent it off with a servant before regaining his wits sufficiently to know that it was a stupid, childish thing to do. When he'd come to his senses again, it was already too late. The courier was already on his way with the letter, and all Miran could do was try to get as far away from there as possible before the search patrols went out for him.

He had pondered, several times, if he perhaps should to return; if he did he'd be able to apologize, to explain. But the further he travelled from everything that was familiar, the more at ease he felt. The restlessness no longer burned in his blood, the anger had faded away until only regret remained, and the more he was allowed to breathe fresh air and explore the world, the surer he became that he couldn't return. What if his father wouldn't let him go away? He'd locked him up once, after all, so what was to stop him from doing it again? It was true that Miran would probably be able to break away sooner or later, but he couldn't bear the thought of another painful departure. With a deep sigh he had to concede that it was probably better this way. At least now, Miran would never have to be sure that his father would have stopped him; he could always comfort himself with that maybe his assumptions had been wrong.

Or he could simply imagine that he'd been locked in for his own protection. After all, the more he saw of the world, the harsher it seemed to him. He'd already been robbed at knifepoint once. Of course, Miran had wandered away from that encounter with both his own money and that of his attacker, hoping the man, once he realised this, would learn some valuable lessons, mainly about underestimating your opponent and the repayment you should expect for unjust deeds. But it had still shocked him deeply. He'd spent his whole life trying desperately to stop his own hands from wandering into other people's pockets, ashamed of his very nature, and then he, faced with the world, was forced to realize that there were people who actually stole _on purpose,_ and who didn't seem the least bit ashamed of it. He'd been taught that what he did was wrong, and now he was slowly coming to the insight that while no one actually disagreed with that, there were people that just didn't care.

Somehow, that felt unfair.

He sat with his forehead leaned against the table and his arms covering his head until he heard footsteps approaching and looked up. The young serving girl hesitated and gave him an appraising look. "Maybe you'd be better off with some warm tarbean tea," she suggested, handing him his plate but keeping a firm grip on the ale.

"It's okay," Miran replied quietly, bestowing a weary smile on her. "I'm not drunk, I'm just tired. I've travelled rather far today."

She hastily threw a look over her shoulder, and when she noticed that the barkeep had disappeared into the kitchen, she gave him his ale and then sat down opposite him, and even though she tried to hide it, Miran saw curiosity in her eyes. Well, curiosity was something he could sympathize with.

"You must have. Qualinesti is quite far from here, isn't it?" she asked, her eagerness also betrayed in her voice.

"It is. And even further when you're travelling alone." The words were over his lips before he could stop himself, and he could have kicked himself unconscious when she giggled in reply and blushed faintly. _Now she thinks you're flirting with her, you prize fool!_ he shouted at himself in his head. He wondered if he should perhaps remind her that she had work to do, but the room was almost empty and it would be an obvious dismissal. He didn't want to be cruel to her. It wasn't her fault that he always spoke without thinking.

"I heard it's really beautiful," she said wistfully. "Especially in the autumns, when forest turns to gold and silver."

Miran gave her a surprised look. "How do you know that?" he wondered. She smiled a bright, dimpled smile at him.

"It was a half-elf man that passed through here with his business partner a while ago," she replied. "I asked him to tell me about the land of the elves, because I had heard it was supposed to be so beautiful, see, and he told me. About the capital, where the houses are made out of pink quartz, and the Tower of the Sun – he had _lived _there, you know – and the aspen forests…" She sighed, looking a bit misty-eyed, and Miran felt an unexpected sting of bitterness in his chest. He had never even seen the wonders she described. It was _his_ land, _his_ people – at least to one half – and he'd never been allowed to glance at the miraculous city of Qualinost, the Tower of the Sun. It was true that he'd seen the aspen forests, but mostly that had been through the windows of the mansion, and even when he'd gone through the forest when he ran away, all joy he might have felt had turned into pain at the thought that he was leaving this beautiful land – this land that he'd never been allowed to feel was truly his – behind.

And he also felt unexpected anger towards this unknown half-elf. He had been allowed everything that Miran had been denied. He had even lived in the Tower of the Sun, apparently. He'd probably seen more of Porthios than his own son had! Why? Why was it so unfair?

But Miran already knew why. It was because this man had been half human. He knew that most elves regarded humans with quiet disdain, and half-elves with mingled scorn and pity. Yet it still happened from time to time that these two races mixed. A half-elf, half-human person was not so strange. Not a freak of nature, like Miran.

"You look sad," the girl commented. "I guess you miss it really much, huh?"

"Yes," Miran lied, lowering his gaze. "Miss my father the most, though." That, however, was not a lie. "I've never been away from home before."

"Oh, poor you." She leaned a bit closer, and Miran was deeply embarrassed to notice that she was trying her best to come off as seductive. "You know, I-"

But before the girl managed to say anything else, the barkeep returned and ordered her gruffly to get back to work, and she scurried off with an apologetic smile back at him. When he was sure that she was busy with cleaning the tables, the barkeep came over to glare down at Miran.

"I jest want yer te kneuw that she's _my_ _niece_, young sir, 'fore you get any funny ideas. Understood?"

"Oh, no, please don't think that I was…!" Miran exclaimed, but he nonetheless kept his voice low, hoping she wouldn't hear him. He didn't want to make her feel humiliated.

The barkeep snorted. "Yeah, tha's right, ye elves think ye're too good fer us, dontya?"

"That's not it at all," Miran replied solemnly, trying to convey how much in earnest he truly meant his words. "As a matter of fact, I think she seems like a way too good girl for me, not the other way around. I'm just a vagrant, wandering the roads. She seems like a good, sweet girl, and I honestly wouldn't dream of getting any… eh, funny ideas." Well, that was indeed very true.

The barkeep stared at him hard, as if trying to decide if he was making fun of him, and then he nodded curtly. "Very well, then. So long's you keep to yourself, young sir, I won't mind ye." And with that he went back to work.

_I'm probably older than you_, Miran thought rebelliously, mostly because it had been a really long day and he was tired of _everyone_ being suspicious of him one way or another, _all the time._

He ate up and got on his way quickly after that. Hopefully the girl would assume that her uncle had scared him off. Actually, he was glad the man had talked to him, because he had no idea how he otherwise would have gotten out of it without making her feel stupid.

As he went out into the crisp autumn air, he stood still for a while, once more battling the yearning to turn around and go home. After his sheltered life in Qualinesti, this world overwhelmed him, scared him, made him feel empty and lost. And while his life at the mansion had often left him feeling misunderstood and bereft, he had never felt truly lonely, not like he did now. But the more he thought of returning, the more impossible it seemed. There was something that urged him on, something in his very blood that seemed to prefer, even crave, the loneliness of the road before the safety of home. He suddenly wished fervently, as he had so many times before, that his mother could have been alive now. But what if she couldn't have explained this either? What if there was just something wrong with him?

He shook his head and started walking. What did it matter?

* * *

**A/N:** In this chapter I used some experience of loved ones who suffer from panic attacks, and in this and other chapters I've used information about ADHD and autism. I hope that doesn't offend anyone.


	5. The other halfelf

**A/N:** Well, here's a more cheerful chapter at least. Sorry for the delay. Holidays, you know XD

I'm glad you like his mother; I am very fond of her myself. Hugs and a belated Happy Holidays!

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Chapter Five

**The other half-elf**

* * *

And many years passed, and they turned out to be very lonely.

Miran wandered the roads on his own, mostly shunning strangers for fear of their prejudice and their rejection. He, who always had wished for his kender mother to be alive, thinking that she'd understand him, now avoided kender more than any other race. He was deadly frightened of finding out that they, too, wouldn't understand him, would treat him as if he was strange and unnatural. He had always longed for somewhere to belong; now he just couldn't bear with the possibility of realizing that there was nowhere - neither among elves, nor among kender - where he did. Humans might mistrust him, but at least he could put that down to bigotry and fear, rather than him simply being some kind of warped anomaly. And so it was among humans he mostly dwelled; for the reassurance that their company brought him he would seek them out whenever the loneliness grew to oppressive for him to cope with.

He tried to settle down for a couple of years, working as a dancer on an inn where men of a certain kind of disposition went. He was a commodity, with his elven looks and his slight, almost childlike frame, and so he got handsomely paid. And if he happened to find someone's pouch in his hands, he simply had to pretend they had dropped it, making a flirtatious joke out of it. The men who went there were often more than a bit drunk already, so no one thought it strange. And besides, they were generally so starved for attention - more often than not they lived a life of lies - that they wouldn't have minded even if they had suspected him, as long as he talked to them and smiled at them, and they could pretend that he wasn't paid to do so.

But he remained restless, and when he to his horror found that he was starting to value himself in the same crass terms as he was presented to his inn's guests - like a rare and exquisite product, a beautiful plaything - he knew that it was time for him to leave. And so he went back to the empty roads, and to – to his great shame – earning his living through thievery. He really had no choice; that was the only thing he was truly good at that did not involve taking off almost all of his clothes.

And it was as a thief, many years after his escape from Qualinesti, that he unexpectedly found the thing he had always wanted: Someone who truly could understand.

* * *

He had gone to Haven for the huge market they held around the harvest season, because huge crowds meant plenty of opportunities to stick his hands where they didn't belong and come away a lot richer than he had been before. While he still had absolutely no power to stop his wandering hands, he now could at least focus on what kind of things he wished to acquire - purses of coins, silken handkerchiefs, expensive jewels, but nothing that was monogrammed or very rare - and generally succeeded in forcing himself into ignoring all other objects that wanted his attention. Generally. The technique wasn't perfect by far.

He had walked past a stand of exquisite dwarven-made jewellery several times, wondering if perhaps he ought to skim something off the top of the wealth before him. On one hand, most of the more expensive pieces were very artistically made, probably stamped with the jeweller's mark too, and thus far too easily recognizable to find a fence for on this side of the continent. Besides, they were locked in a windowed box, and no matter how skilled he had become, he still didn't know if he could pick a lock in a crowd – and in the middle of broad daylight, too – without getting noticed. So that was a definite no. But there were still cheaper knickknacks there which were nonetheless beautiful and would easily fetch a good price anyway.

He decided that it was worth a shot, and when he walked past it once again he gently lifted several small yet valuable objects. And that was when something happened to him that had never happened before. A firm hand landed on his shoulder.

"Hold it, lad. I would appreciate it if you paid for those." Miran spun around, and the man's eyes widened in surprise when he realized that he was no youngster - he had seen that reaction before, many times. Miran, however, was just as stunned as the stranger, and so said nothing during the short pause that followed. "Let me rephrase that," the stranger then said. "Hold it, _sir_. I would appreciate if you paid for that." His voice was sharper now that he knew that he was speaking to no mere teenager, but he nonetheless showed no menace, or even anger. Maybe it was Miran's rather gaunt appearance – he still only stole when he really, really had to, and that took its toll – or maybe it was simply his meek demeanour.

Finally, Miran got his vocal-chords back from wherever they had been on a holiday from the moment he'd seen the man's face, and instead of the intended apology he managed to blurt out the simple fact that was right now screaming through his mind over and over again.

"You... you're a half-elf!" he said, wincing at how blunt he sounded.

The man rolled his eyes and looked slightly irate. "Yes, I am. I am also watching this stall for a friend, and I would still very much want his merchandise back."

Still staring at the man through a numb haze, taking in, over and over again, his elven eyes and cheekbones, his human jaw and nose, Miran slowly reached into a pocket and fished out all of the stolen goods, handing them over with a trembling hand. "I'm sorry," he said, as the other half-elf accepted the jewels. "I wouldn't have done that if I didn't have to."

The man's face thawed a bit and he nodded. "I know enough of the world to believe you, unfortunately." He smiled a bit wryly, "Although I swear I almost didn't notice. You're a very skilled thief."

"You're very skilled at watching your friend's wares," Miran quipped back, daring a smile. "I've never been caught before."

"I believe you," the man said, rubbing his chin, and Miran noticed some faint stubble growing there.

"If you don't mind helping me in some research I do for the sake of my further career," Miran said with a sly smile, making the half-elf chuckle, "how did you do it?"

The man shrugged. "Purely practice, actually. One of my closest friends is a kender, so I'm used to being on my guard. If you must know, I didn't actually see your hand. I just noticed that some of the wares were suddenly missing and saw you walking away. So I put two and two together."

Miran nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose I'll have to start carrying some fakes with me. That would fool at least the casual glance."

"I'll remember you said that. And your face," the half-elf said with a wry grin. "But I'll tell you what. I was going to close up shop for lunch anyway. Why don't you come with me to where my friends and I are eating? You'll have a free meal, and I will know you aren't going to search for and break open the cashbox while I'm gone. A fair exchange, no charity. Will you accept that?"

Miran blinked in amazement, and then smiled widely. "Thank you, I would love that. And actually, I do as a rule accept charity as well as fair exchanges. Anything is better than stealing."

The half-elf raised his eyebrows while he was removing the more expensive pieces of jewellery and placing them in a case - probably he meant to take it with him - and then placing the more cheap stuff in the vacated box, locking it. "For someone who's so reluctant to steal, it seems strange that you should be the most skilled thief I've met who wasn't a kender."

"It's a gift, I suppose. Maybe I'll tell you the reason, one day." So he hadn't guessed what Miran was? It appeared as if he hadn't, and his next words confirmed Miran's suspicion.

"You know, I've never met an elf living on the streets before," the man said, looking down at him with quizzical expression as they started walking. "Usually, elves tend to take care of their own."

Miran shrugged a bit uncomfortably, not liking the expression 'their own' because it reminded him that it was untrue. On the other hand it was, in some selfish, nasty way, a bit cheering to hear that this man said 'their' and not 'our'. So he also regarded himself as an outcast. "I'm not your usual elf, I suppose," he said after a short moment of silence. "No one has ever really wanted to take care of me." He pushed the thought of his father away, refused to feel how his conscience twinged.

"I hope that you won't take offence for me asking, but are you a dark elf?" the man said, his tone apologetic. Miran wondered if he did take offence, but decided that he didn't. After all, he still _was_ a sort of an outcast.

"No, I'm not. Not really," he answered, and then added rather bitterly: "I'm just a somewhat grey elf, I suppose. More dirty than truly dark. At least that's what they told me."

The other half-elf gave him a sympathetic look. "Again, I hope this does not insult you, but I still want to say that I do understand what that is like."

_More than you know_, Miran thought, but he didn't say it out loud. "I don't take offence at kindness, sir," he replied instead, earnestly. "I... I am Miranthalias, by the way. But I'd prefer it if you just said Miran."

"I am Tanthalas," the man replied with a slightly lopsided grin, "but I'd prefer it if you just called me Tanis."

And as Miran laughed, he felt his heart soar. Perhaps... just perhaps...

* * *

Porthios had long ago lost his ability to concentrate on the documents in front of him, and now he was staring out the window with a brooding gloom darkening his green eyes. His mother, who was quietly and neatly sharpening the small dagger that most elven women wore in these perilous days, did not have to guess what it was that was ailing her son. It was always the same, and it was also something that weighed a great deal on her heart.

Somewhere out there in the world – in this unsafe, dark world – was Miran, his son. If he even was alive. How could they know? They had heard nothing from him since that dreadful letter, and even though she knew for a fact that Porthios had sent uncountable spies out it the world looking for him, they had found nothing. Well, that was regrettably enough hardly surprising. Finding one particular boy when you had the whole world to look in, and a world that cared little for elves, at that? It was doomed to fail, and she knew Porthios knew that. But he had to keep looking, because how would he be able to even live with himself if he didn't at least try?

She knew that sometimes, anger burned in her son, so much that he almost hated his own son, but still he kept sending out these spies. To demand an apology, or to drag him home where he belonged; to beg him to return, or simply to forgive him.

"Should we call it a night, son?" she asked gently.

"What?" Porthios turned his gaze from the window, bewildered, and before he managed to school his expression she saw the raw longing in his gaze. Wiping her dagger with an oiled cloth and placing it in its sheath, she decided that it was best to be blunt with him, as it often was. With Gilthanas it was better to slowly reason your way there, and with Lauralanthalasa force only met resistance, and therefore you had to plant the idea you wanted in her mind, slowly cultivating it. But hints and finely polished arguments were to Porthios like winds on a rock; it wore him down far too slowly. And sooner or later you arrived at the point where, as she was sure young Tress would have put it, he just needed a good kick in the behind. Well, she would not have put it in those exact words, but Mae believed rather firmly in minding her language.

"It is his birthday tomorrow, child," she said, gently, but she showed no remorse as he winced and looked away. "You will not be able to concentrate no matter how hard you try, so why don't we simply call it a night?"

"I…" For a moment he looked lost, but then he gave her a stern look, instinctively sitting up straighter. "I really need to finish these papers, mother," he said reproachfully, but his gaze shifted away as she glared at him.

"I won't have any of that, Porthios. Remember that I raised you, my son. You have no right to speak to me as if I do not understand what responsibility is." Her voice softened, and she stood up and came to his side, reaching out to take the quill from his shaking fingers. "This might be your duty as a prince, but your duty as a parent is different."

"What do you mean?" he snapped harshly at her, looking away. "I don't-"

"Yes, you do," his mother said firmly. "It is your duty to admit to yourself that you miss him, your duty to put down your quill and admit defeat for the time being. And it is your duty to _your_ parents, Porthios, not to work yourself to the bone when you're in such a fragile state." Her face suddenly looked older, and she shook her head sadly at his angry incomprehension. "I worry about you, Porthios. Your father worries about you. Even your brother and sister worry about you, though they hardly know why. But I do. You are becoming hard and angry. You push yourself too far. And a prince made of stone might be the kind of leader our people will need in these troubled times ahead, but wars don't last forever. Nothing new can grow out of stone, my love."

Porthios met her gaze for a few moments, but he did not reply. Instead he stepped around her and left the room, and Mae could feel his anger like an icy wind when he closed the door with a quiet _click_. She knew her son thought that she had spoken out of line, but she herself felt as if she had said too little, and far too late.

* * *

First, Miran had of course been terrified when he learned that Tanis' kender friend was to be present at the meal. His first, confused thought was one of concern that _he_ would notice what Tanis had failed to see. He needn't have worried about that. Except for commenting on that Miran was awfully short for being an elf – and adding very solemnly that of course he meant this as a compliment – he seemed completely unaware of their kinship.

Then, of course, came the fear that had made him avoid kender for all these long years, the fear of being misunderstood and mistrusted by his mother's race as well as his father's. But Tas treated him with kindness, a rather blunt sort of politeness, and – of course – curiosity. Miran got a bit worried when Tas looked down on his hand to examine a ring that he had appropriated from Miran's purse, only to do a rather comical double-take when he realised it wasn't there. But he just shrugged and seemed to dismiss the whole incident. With a sigh of relief, Miran slipped the ring back into a pocket. He hadn't even noticed it missing until he had found it in his own hand, and realised that he had taken it back from the kender.

It never ceased to amaze him that he could do that.

He wondered if Tas was this kind and open to him because he was used to being in the company of a half-elf and a dwarf, or if maybe this was how all kender acted. Maybe it actually didn't matter to them which race you were? It was a strange thought. But, he thought with a sigh, even if that was true, there was still no telling how they would react to a half-kender. Maybe they would just pity him? But he wasn't sure he wanted that either.

Tanis' dwarf friend had given him a long, hard look from between eyes that were narrowed in suspicion – unsurprising, considering it was _his_ stall, and Tanis had cheerfully told him about Miran's failed theft – but then he had extended a hand to it, offering a gruff greeting. To Miran it seemed that he had passed some sort of test, but he had absolutely no idea of what that test had consisted in. Later, when all four of them were seated in the grass of a small park – probably for Tanis' sake, but Miran was grateful nonetheless; after the mansion he rather minded enclosed places – the dwarf started posing curt questions to him.

"How come you don't live in Qualinesti?" he demanded to know.

"How do you know I'm not from Silvanesti?" Miran quipped back and ate a grape.

"Heard you swearing in elfish," Flint replied with a snort. "You sound just like Tanis. Same accent. Will you answer my question now?"

Miran shrugged uneasily and plucked at a strand of grass. "I don't have anything that would make me stay, I suppose," he said, wondering as his heart stung if he ever was going to get used to lying.

Tanis raised his eyebrows. "And unusual statement from an elf, if you don't mind me saying so. Usually, the fact that it's Qualinesti is reason enough to stay."

"Well, Qualinesti wasn't quite as wonderful for me as it could have been, I suppose," Miran replied with bitterness he didn't have to fake.

"Why not?" Tas wondered with interest, but backed down when Tanis gave him a stern glance and Flint smacked him on the back of the head. "Oh, fine, you don't have to tell. Only, I've heard from Tanis that it's supposed to be this wonderful place, and that's even though I suppose it wasn't as great for him as it was for the others – the elves, I mean – either. I've always wanted to go there, actually, but Tanis says it's impossible for kender. I call that rude. Hey, what's so funny?"

Miran shook his head, still grinning. "Oh, nothing. Just a story I heard from my father about a kender who got in, that's all."

"Really?" Tas said eagerly.

"Really?" Tanis said a whole lot more sceptically. "Are you sure your father wasn't just joking around with you?"

Miran shook his head. "No, I know it was true. He'd… he'd never joke about that. He's never been much for joking, anyhow." Horrified to feel sudden and unexpected tears burn in his eyes, Miran looked away, but thought he still saw Tanis and Flint exchange perplexed glances out of the corner of his eye.

"Your parents…" Tanis said after a short pause, during which Flint grabbed some more of the cold ham and Tas was looking for a map to Qualinesti. "May I ask who they are? I might know of your family."

Miran thought it was best not to let slip that he was the son of the crown prince maybe just yet. "Oh, you don't know my father," he said, quite sure that this was accurate. Why would a half-elf know the crown prince?

"And your mother?"

Miran sighed. "She died giving birth to me. I never knew her." This time, he definitely saw Tanis and Flint exchanging glances. "What?" he demanded.

Flint cleared his throat rather pointedly, and Tanis nodded before turning back to Miran with a smile that was tinged with sadness. "My mother, too, died giving birth to me. I think Flint thinks I ought to tell you."

"Oh…" Miran's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was she… I mean, was she elven, or…?"

"Yes." Tanis nodded. "My mother was elven. My father…" He made a bitter grimace, and as he continued his voice was leaden. "Well, as you can see, he was human."

"Not a very happy union?" Miran suggested meekly, knowing he really oughtn't, but still wanting to know.

Tanis said nothing, just lowered his head, but Flint replied in stead. "As far as I and Tanis ever heard, it was rape," he said gruffly, patting Tanis a bit awkwardly on the arm. "Some bandit that killed her husband and then… well. It's not certain what would have happened to Tanis here if the Speaker of the Suns hadn't taken mercy on him. And even that mercy had a bit of a double edge…" The last was added in a mutter, but Miran almost didn't hear him. He was staring at Tanis.

"Gr- The Speaker? Why?" he demanded to know.

Tanis sighed bitterly. "My mother was his brother's wife," he replied. "I suppose he felt it was his duty to-"

"Got it!" Tas exclaimed triumphantly, sitting amidst a heap of various objects emptied from his pouches. Miran felt a slight sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, and when Tas was waving the newly found map in the face of a swearing Flint, and Tanis was laughing at them, he plunged his hands into both of his pockets. As he had suspected, he found several items there that he'd never seen before, and he dropped them among the large array of items that Tas had spread on the grass. Even if one of the items belonged to Tanis or Flint, they would probably find their way back to their owners eventually.

He noticed that Tanis seemed rather relieved at having been interrupted, so he decided not to pursue the subject… for now. Instead he answered to the storm of questions from Tas on exactly _how_ one snuck into Qualinesti, seeing as he did so how Tanis and Flint both looked amused and unconvinced. Well, that didn't matter much to him, since he actually was the living proof of that he was speaking the truth.

Nonetheless, as he continued talking, his thoughts never left what he'd just heard for long, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He had no doubt about that Tanis was the half-elf the girl at the inn had spoken of, so many years ago. So he had lived close to Miran's father, he must have, and yet Porthios had never told his own son about the other half-elf living at court. Probably because that would lead Miran to question why he had to live like a prisoner in that god-forsaken mansion, when the other half-elf was allowed to live among the elves like an equal. Sure, Tanis probably had never been _treated_ like an equal, but neither had Miran!

The thought burned and chafed and left him no peace.

_Were you really that ashamed of me, father?_ he wondered, not sure he ever would want to know the answer to that.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, so I ended in a _bit_ of a melancholy note there, but things are looking up, right? Well, for Miran they are. And I promise I won't torture poor Porthios for ever XD


	6. Telling tales

**A/N: **Yay :D I am so glad you liked it. They were harder to write than I'd imagined :P

And your wish is of course my command, so here's a new chapter for you. It's a bit on the long side, but I hope you don't mind.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Six**

**Telling tales**

* * *

And because Tanis actually was the first half-elf he'd ever met, Miran decided to hang around. He got himself a job, and because his new friends seemed so very proud of him for doing so, he didn't tell them exactly what it entailed. At least in this new place he was allowed to wear an outfit bigger than your basic handkerchief when he danced, even if it _was _a bit transparent.

It still came as a huge surprise to him that when Tanis and his friends decided to move on, they asked him to come with them, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world to do. He noticed Flint and Tanis smiling meaningfully at each other when he had to partly turn his face away for a bit to blink away the tears clouding his vision, and even Tas stopped imploring him for an answer and looked solemn. Then he shrugged and grinned. "I guess we should take that as a yes, huh?" he said impishly.

"You should," Miran replied a bit thickly, and then he cleared his throat, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I just... didn't really expect that."

"Should've," Flint said curtly. "You obviously need someone to look after you, young man, to keep you from going back to thieving."

"Yes, exactly," Tas said and affixed Miran with a stern look. "It's very bad to steal, you know."

The dwarf scoffed and muttered something, and Tanis hid his smile behind the palm of his hand. But they didn't know what it was like; they couldn't know. Miran did. "Yes Tas," he agreed quietly. "It's terrible to steal. But sometimes there's no help for it."

Tas nodded solemnly. "Of course I don't blame you for stealing when you were poor and all that. But now you don't have to, because you're with us. Right, Tanis?"

"That's right," Tanis said with a smile, rolling his eyes a bit at Miran as if to say, _Kenders, huh?_ Miran just smiled a bit wryly and thought to himself, _That's something I know more of than you, half-human._

* * *

But now that he was going to join his newly found friends on the road, Miran thought it was best if he perhaps told Tanis what he was. If he told him later, he might feel that Miran had kept him in the dark; he would most likely be upset. So gathering what courage he could find, he went to knock on the door to the room where he knew that Tanis stayed. But once there he changed his mind. Instead, he listened for a while at the door to make sure Tanis wasn't busy, but from what he could hear – even breathing and pages turning – the other half-elf was reading a book. So he hunched down a bit, peering into the lock, and set to work.

This was an acquired talent, one he'd had to practise quite a lot, but his teacher had told him that he seemed to have a natural affinity for it. The man had actually even said that it was as if Miran had some kender blood in him – to which Miran had pretended to take offence, just to be on the safe side.

It was not a complicated lock, and he managed to open it both quickly and silently, and as he slipped inside and closed the door after him, he noted that he had not alerted Tanis to his presence. He took a silent moment just to gloat. He was _good_ at this, and he was going to allow himself the vanity of not simply putting it up to racial affinity.

"Tanis," he then said aloud, and smirked when the half-elf jumped automatically to his feet, his book sliding from his hands as he appeared to search for a weapon. "It's okay. It's only me."

"Miran." Tanis frowned, putting down the apple-corer that he'd apparently intended assault Miran with. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Miran held up a lock-pick as a way of explanation, and Tanis groaned. "Sometimes, I don't know who's worse, you or Tas."

Miran squirmed a bit. "Well, actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Tanis looked confused. "I'm afraid I'm not following you."

"This." Miran held up several items which moments ago had resided either in the half-elf's pockets or about the room.

Tanis took them back with a slightly pained expression on his face. "I thought we had agreed that you would stop doing that."

"Well, that's just the thing. I _can't _stop. I don't think I ever will."

Tanis gave Miran a long, hard look, and then he sat down again, indicating that Miran should do the same. "Are you saying that you suffer from kleptomania?" he wondered levelly, while Miran leaned against the wall instead of sitting and tried to breathe evenly.

"Well, not as such," Miran said, averting his gaze. "I mean, sometimes I steal, but the stealing in itself is not a compulsion. I just can't help ending up with other people's belongings in my pockets, and there's no way I can stop it."

Tanis raised his eyebrows. "You didn't have to catch that off a kender, did you?" It was clear that he didn't quite believe what he was hearing.

Miran sighed. "Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. It was sort of inevitable. She was my mother, see?"

Tanis opened his mouth, but then slowly closed it again as the words sank in. For a long time he said nothing, and instead stared intently at Miran, all colour gradually draining from his face. After a while – and it couldn't have been that long, but it seemed like an eternity – he stood up and walked over to Miran, and for a while did nothing but let his scrutinizing gaze search his face for... something.

"Is that why you left home?" he asked finally in a half-choked voice.

Miran shrugged, trying not to squirm under the other half-elf's penetrating gaze. "There was nothing there for me. And I was getting restless."

"That..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head. And then a thought appeared to strike him. "That story you told Tas! About the kender who got in..."

"My mother," Miran confirmed. "That's how she met my father."

"Your father..." Tanis echoed. "And they...?"

"Fell in love," Miran said firmly, and nothing in the world could have helped him block out the memory of his father's words_. '...__I did love her. Very much so, Miranthalias, and I don't want you to ever forget that.' _He shook his head, angry with himself as he felt his eyes burn with sudden tears. "I know it must sound weird to you that someone who isn't a kender managed to fall in love with one, but that's what happened. He really loved her, and he stayed with her even though he knew he couldn't marry her, and then..." He sighed. "And then she died."

"In childbirth," Tanis murmured, understanding dawning upon his features. "You're still a lot larger than a kender. She..."

"Exactly," Miran said heavily. "And then it was just him and me. And... well, you can imagine I wasn't exactly the kind of son anyone would have wished for. And even though I don't look that much like a half-elf, I had... problems, and people would have noticed..." He pulled a hand through his hair with an unhappy grimace, but then his features hardened in anger. "So he locked me up."

"He did _what_?" Tanis demanded, shocked.

"Locked me up. Sure, it was a big mansion, but I was never allowed outside it unless I was with him, and... and he just couldn't know what that's like for someone like me. No one can. And he never asked. But it's..." He shivered, remembering. "Tanis, it's the most horrible feeling in the world; it's like you're being slowly stifled to death and there is nothing you can do, and..." He a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. "I know he thought that he did it to protect me; that's what he promised mother before she died, see? That he'd protect me from people who would be cruel to me because of what I am."

"There are a lot of people who would be," Tanis interjected heavily. "Believe me. To tell the truth, I don't know if I, as a youth, wouldn't rather have chosen to be protected, even if that meant robbing me of my freedom."

"But you're not half kender," Miran pointed out. "To me, what he did was just as cruel as anything people at court could have said if..."

"_Court_?" Tanis exclaimed, and Miran wished he could've bitten his own tongue off. "Your father is part of the elven court?"

Miran sighed. "Yes. He is."

"But... _who_?" Miran said nothing, just stared glumly at his feet. Even so, he could feel Tanis' incredulous stare. "You're still protecting him," the other half-elf mumbled, amazed.

"I have to," Miran said, chewing his own lip in agony. "I mean, I really am very angry with him, but that doesn't mean that I want him to suffer through everything he would be subject to if it was ever found out that he had a child with a kender. They would say that he's sick, that he's the kind of man who wants to bed children, and that _just isn't true._ Or they'd just say that he'd proven that he had horrible judgement, as if you can choose who you love. And then he'd lose... well, everything. I don't want that."

"But didn't he take everything from you?" Tanis wondered gently.

Miran sighed. "No. Not really. He probably thought he was doing the best he could. He tried to keep in touch, and to visit me, even if it wasn't very often, and he gave me the best education that anyone could wish for, and he... cared. He loved me. Maybe he even loves me still. But I chose to give that up for freedom, and that was _my_ choice. I can't take that out on him." He saw Tanis frown, and tried to explain. "I know he treated me badly. But I don't think he ever really knew how much. He_ should_ have known, should have stopped to think, but that means his crime is more stupidity than real malice." He lowered his head. "Besides, I've already punished him enough. I ran away, didn't I? And I didn't tell him where I was going. All I did was send a stupid letter about how much I hated him, which wasn't true, but it probably broke his heart. So I have no right to punish him even more. We're through, him and I."

He squeezed his eyes shut, once more forcing back tears, pressing his lips together so hard it hurt to keep from sobbing. But then Tanis then fell to his knees before him and embraced him like a long-lost brother, and there was no way of keeping it back. Clinging to the other half-elf like he was his only life-line in the whole world, he cried over the father he had lost and the mother he'd never even had the chance to have; the homeland that he both missed and hated, and the fact that for the first time, now that he was miles from his own family, he felt like he belonged.

* * *

"But why didn't you tell?" Tas wondered, wide-eyed, as he bounced down the road out of town alongside the carriage with Flint's wares. Miran, who had spent the night talking to Tanis and therefore hadn't gotten much sleep, was perched on the back of the cart, rocking gently with its motion, his head rested against the side.

"I've just gotten very used to hiding it," Miran replied, which wasn't the whole truth, but at least a part of it. He _wasn't _going to admit that he'd been afraid of both Tanis and Tas; he wasn't quite sure if he knew if it was because he was anxious that they'd laugh at him or if he was afraid they'd be hurt. In any case, it wasn't going to do any good. "People can be rather weird about half-bloods, you know."

Tas thought about it, and then nodded in agreement. "Some people get _very_ upset about Tanis. And it's not even as if he's trying to be a half-elf _at_ them, you know. I mean, it's hard for him to be something _else._"

Miran smiled, nodding. "Exactly. And I look like an elf, and people don't like elves as it is. I was quite sure that being a half-kender was going to make it even worse."

"You're probably right," Tas said glumly. "Sometimes, people are _really_ rude to you, just for being a kender. Some of them even call us 'thieves'. No offence, of course," he added hurriedly, giving Miran an anxious look. "It's just that if you're _not_ a thief, you don't want to be accused of being one."

"I know," Miran said. "Believe me. But what about you, Tas?"

"What about me?" Tas gave up walking as it appeared to make him a bit winded, and leapt up to sit opposite Miran in the cart.

"Does it bother you that I'm only a half-kender?" Miran asked, and hoped his voice didn't give away just how frightened he was of a 'yes'.

Tas gave him an incredulous look. "Why should it?" he asked. "I mean, it's better than no half at all. Not that I mind elves, of course, but big people can be terribly boring at times, so I'd say that for most people, it would be rather healthy for them to have a kender part. Besides, people rarely take us really seriously, you know," he added, uncommonly solemn now, "so it's sort of nice to know that _someone_ at least took a kender seriously enough to fall in love with her."

Miran nodded, and his voice was a bit thick when he answered. "I'm glad you think so. Elves don't quite see it like that. They just think it's the elven half that matters. And not the half that I have, but the one I _don't_ have, if you see what I mean."

"So you're sort of just half a person walking around to them?"

"Yes, sort of."

Tas stifled a giggle, and then looked a tad ashamed of himself. "Not that it isn't terribly sad, of course," he explained, "it just sounds really funny. Imagine this elf cut in half hopping about on one leg, looking for that other part that got lost."

Miran laughed too. "Maybe I can borrow Tanis' part for a while?"

"Yes, do, and let him have your kender part instead. He really needs it sometimes."

"I heard that." Tanis turned around on the box and winked at them, and they could hear Flint muttering something that sounded a lot like "Reorx forbid it!" and they laughed even harder. The sun was rising over the treetops by now, painting the clear autumn day in a brassy glow, and Miran knew that he was going to remember this day forever. The cold air, the laughter, the gentle rocking of the cart, every colour standing out at him as if some god had decided to paint the world anew... It was perfect. It was all he'd ever wanted.

Well, all he'd ever wanted, save his father. But he wasn't going to think of that now.

* * *

Years passed in a steady rhythm. Sure, life never really quieted down when you spent a lot of it on the roads and the rest of it sharing house with a grouchy dwarf and a kender, but quiet had never been what Miran was looking for in any case. What he had been looking for was exactly what he had now. He had acceptance – even when Flint claimed that the both of them were driving him insane, he was never cruel or judgemental – and he had understanding – both from Tanis, who knew what it was like to feel like two people at once, and from Tas, who knew exactly how hellish staying still in one room could be.

They became quite a spectacle in Solace. The dwarf, the kender and the elf living in one house, often accompanied by the half-elf Tanis. At Miran's request, his friends had kept his mixed heritage a secret; they hadn't questioned it, and to this day they had kept true to that promise. Even Tas, to everyone's big surprise. Flint had been sure that the secret would be out in a week, but it appeared that if it was for Miran, Tas could restrain himself. And Miran, who knew just how hard it could be to not blurt out the first thing on his mind, was very grateful for this.

Then, one day, Tas unexpectedly brought people home.

Miran was on top of the house at the time, cleaning out the leaves that frequently got stuck in the panes there. This also served the purpose of getting out of Flint's way, because the dwarf was in a temper about that one of them had managed to get his tea-kettle lost. Not that it _actually_ was lost. It was under Tas' bed, Miran was quite sure, because he'd seen it there when he'd been looking for his breeches, which had apparently wandered off without any legs in them (and which were later found, strangely enough, in a kitchen cupboard). But Miran recognised the signs, and knew that Flint wasn't going to listen to him when he was in such a mood. So he'd decided to get some fresh air into himself and wait for Tas to get home from the fair.

He had wanted to go, of course, but he tried to keep away as much as possible from large gatherings of people. He still had no control over where his hands went, and while a kender purloining your pouch was regarded as a bloody nuisance, an elf doing the same would be regarded as a serious offence against the law, and he'd be hauled off to jail for a lot longer than a kender would. Not that he actually thought that he was going to get caught, but, as Tanis had gently pointed out, it _had_ happened before, and might do so again. If he wanted his secret to be kept, he would just have to accept that there were certain things he could not do. And for the freedom of choosing for himself when he was ready to tell the world, Miran was willing to make any sacrifice.

He was pondering this, and the fact that he almost wished that the fair would end so that he'd be allowed to move about more freely, when a shout from below brought him out of his reverie.

"Miran!" No mistaking Tas' voice. "We have guests!"

Surprised – the citizens of Solace still tended to be rather suspicious of the odd trio and their half-elf friend – Miran slid down the steeply sloping roof to peer over the edge, feeling a thrill of excitement and nervousness at the thought of visitors.

Accompanying Tas, and looking somewhat tense and out-of-place, where three young human males. One was a complete stranger – a tall, serious young man with an old-fashioned hair-style and the beginnings of a Solamnian-looking moustache – but the other two triggered a memory.

They were the two young men that had been present when the Widow Judith was thrown out of town, the day that their father had died and she'd made that huge scene about it and almost had the town in pitchforks after her. He remembered watching, horrified and unable to speak, as that awful woman had blamed the grieving wife and sons for what had obviously been a brutal accident. He'd seen the sorrow in the face of the more vulnerable of the two, the larger brother, and the anger that had blazed in the features of the frailer, but obviously dominant brother. He remembered how the bigger brother had held him back, and how he'd begged him not to harm her, not to prove her right. He remembered in perfect detail, even to this day, how the village had formed a protective circle around the boys, and how Tanis had stepped up and told Judith to go away and never come back.

Now he watched the two young men at their ease, no longer grief-stricken and pale. The larger of the two was grinning and waving at him, calling out a greeting that Miran returned with a smile. His brother was wearing a weird little half-smile, and even as Miran slung his legs over the edge and dropped to the ground, he felt the young man's piercing blue eyes watching him.

"Hello." A bit unnerved by that scrutinizing gaze, which he couldn't quite manage to meet, he nonetheless extended his hand to him to shake. "I'm Miranthalias, but that's a terrible bother to say, so most people just say Miran."

"Raistlin Majere," the young man answered smoothly. "And this is my brother, Caramon, and his friend, Sturm Brightblade." Miran noticed that he said 'his friend' rather than 'our friend' and wondered why.

"Pleasure to meet you," Miran said, as usual holding back the impulse to pepper the strangers with questions, but instead offering his hand to Sturm and Caramon. Not that his self-restraint mattered much, because Tas was already in mid-chatter.

"Raistlin and Caramon are twins, you know, aren't you? Isn't that interesting? I've never really met any twins before. Have you, Miran?"

"Well, I've met one twin before, in Qualinesti. I never met her brother, but people always made a very big deal out of it, because well, it's very, very rare among elves. I don't think it's as rare among humans, though..." Knowing he was on good way to start babbling, Miran bit his tongue to shut up. He knew he really didn't have to, not when it was just him and his friends, but with strangers there he had to check his behaviour or risk exposing himself.

Tas seemed to notice, and directed the attention away, introducing Sturm and explaining that he was going to be a knight and go to Solamia and find his father and fight ogres and goblins and evil wizards – no offence meant to Raistlin of course... and so on and so forth as he lead them to the door. But Miran still thought he could see Raistlin regarding him thoughtfully for a while after, and was frightened. If this person really was suspecting something, then was it really so easy for strangers to pick up who he was? Or was this Raistlin person just exceptionally perceptive? He'd just have to hope this was the case. It was ridiculous to imagine that he'd have to isolate himself completely, and it was definitely not something that he could ask of his friends.

Of course, there was always the alternative of just letting the truth out, and he _would_, at some point. Just not right now. Not when life was going so great and he was finally at peace with himself.

* * *

Some days, there was no helping it. Knowing by now that during these days, he was unpredictable and unreliable as a leader, Porthios locked himself in his room with a lot of paperwork and worked as if he was possessed by a demon until he either snapped out of it or was so exhausted that he would crash into bed and fall asleep instantly.

His mother had made it clear that she disapproved of this behaviour, and to his shame he had to admit that he had started distancing himself from her after that. But how could he not, he defended himself in his thoughts. She just wouldn't let it go, wouldn't stop pushing and poking and trying to provoke a reaction from him that would prove her right. But he knew she was right. It was just that if he was going to let his grief into his life, he was pretty sure that it would slowly crumble around him, and it would be selfish and irresponsible to let that happen. He was the crown prince. His duties _had_ to come before his own desires and needs – even including the grief over his lost, possibly dead, son.

His father understood this better, even though Porthios sometimes caught him watching him with great sorrow in his eyes. And that was almost worse, because it implied that his father, as well as his mother, was worried about how he was handling himself. And more than anything, Porthios wanted to prove to his father that he could manage his duties despite the fact that his regret and frustration sometimes got the better of him.

Putting his work aside for now and hoping that he had worked off his aggravation sufficiently to be able to handle this, he went out to find his family and greet Tanis, who was on one of his visits. These visits were always a trial. Usually Tanis tried to be as brief as possible, something that Porthios appreciated greatly, especially because it was evident that one of the reasons for his short visits obviously was Lauralanthalasa. His younger sister was obviously still besotted with the half-elf, and she was far too young to be able to hide it. And even though Tanis was admittedly trying to politely discourage her, he was obviously having trouble refusing her to her face. They had grown up together like siblings, and Laurana was the kind of person that was almost impossible to dislike even if you _hadn't_ grown up together with her, let alone if you had. And, despite what Tanis might be telling the girl, at some times his body language was quite saying something different. After all, she _was_ incredibly beautiful, and it was probably hard for him not to notice, especially when she was very clumsily attempting to flirt with him.

Gilthanas noticed this too, and seethed, but that was not what unbalanced Porthios. No, it was as always when he met the half-elf; every single regret he had was dragged up from their murky depths of shame and cast into the brilliant sunlight, to reveal themselves as the ugly beasts they had grown into. And as they lashed inside him, sharp claws of self-doubt eating at his soul, Porthios was filled with the urge to in turn lash out at the people around him, and at Tanthalas in particular.

And the worst part of it, nowadays, was probably seeing how Tanis had turned into such a self-assured young man, clearly displaying confidence in a way that Miran - who'd had every advantage that Tanis hadn't – never had. And Porthios couldn't help wondering if, even now, Miran was still insecure and frightened, wherever he was now. If he even was alive; with the state of the world being what it was today, there was no guarantee that a half-elf was going to survive for long in Ansalon; especially if he also happened to be half kender. Tanis had had that dwarf, Fireforge, around to protect and guide him; who did Miran have? Did he have anyone at all? Or was he alone in the world?

He heard Tanis rather awkwardly discuss his life on the roads with an overly-attentive Lauralanthalasa, and probably because he was on edge, and his mind was already focused on his son, Porthios almost thought he heard the half-elf mentioning Miran's name. He twitched involuntarily, and turned his gaze toward Tanis for a moment before he caught himself, berating himself mentally for reacting at all. Of course Tanis wasn't talking about _his_ Miran; he might not even be talking about a Miran at all, but simply someone with a similar name. Miriam, for example, was apparently a fairly common name among human women. It was ridiculous to even hope, and he was only going to hurt himself if he kept chasing shadows like that.

Tanis took his leave soon thereafter, and Porthios was glad of it. Returning for his office with the firm intention of working until he passed out by his desk, he prayed to the absent gods that it would take long before the half-elf returned again.

It would appear that some god did hear him.

* * *

Tanis was packing up his things and leaving, his mind churning. For just a moment there, he'd almost thought... but no. Porthios couldn't be Miran's father. It was impossible. He'd _know_ if there was another half-elf in the family, surely? And even if they'd kept it from Tanis, like they'd kept other things in the past, at least Laurana would have known. He'd seen no recognition in her face when he mentioned Miran, and he knew for a fact that he could read her like an open book.

Besides, just the mere thought of Porthios sleeping with a kender, let alone falling in love with one... well, it was just ludicrous, pure and simple. He probably hadn't even _seen_ a kender in his entire lifetime.

So that small twitch he'd seen, that searching glance... it had just been his imagination, or it had been a reaction to something completely different. That had to be it.

* * *

After a couple of months spent together, Miran came to the conclusion that Raistlin _always_ regarded people as if he knew all of their innermost secrets; it was simply the way he choose to interact with others. But he also quickly realised that it was only a matter of time before Raistlin would know his secret. Perhaps he kept up that unsettling demeanour by design; the level of nervousness someone displayed at meeting him told him whether or not they had something that they were trying to hide. And Miran was quite sure that the young mage had registered his anxiety at their first meeting, as well as the way Tas had tried to cover up for him. And that made Miran even more nervous, which in turn meant he had absolutely no control over his hands when within direct proximity to Raistlin. So far, Tas was doing an excellent job at subconsciously plundering Miran's pockets after he had done the same to Raistlin, thus taking all of the blame, but since Tas was unaware of what he was doing, it was only a matter of time before he missed something. And even if he didn't... well, Raistlin was uncomfortable intelligent, and would probably manage to figure it out some other way. So Miran really had no choice but to tell.

So when they stood by and watched Flint teaching Sturm and Caramon fighting techniques, eagerly assisted by Tas – whether he wanted to or not – Miran threw a sidelong glance at Raistlin, studying his face. A slight twitch in the corners of his mouth, curling them upwards, communicated contempt that Raistlin was trying not to show, but just a second later they tightened, his forehead creasing slightly, showing the anger that was behind. When he noticed Miran looking, he lifted his hand to his forehead, partially hiding his eyes, and Miran wondered if he was ashamed, or if he was affecting shame for Miran's eyes.

It was a strange power dynamic between the two brothers; Miran couldn't quite figure it out. Both good-looking, both brilliant in their own ways, yet they swayed back and forth like a seesaw, unable to decide who was on top, which of them even _wanted_ to be on top. He had been certain at first that Raistlin was the dominant, Caramon the dependant, but now he wasn't quite as certain. Sometimes – very rarely, but still, sometimes – it was as if the balance shifted, or perhaps only was revealed for what it was, and he saw some kind of terror in Raistlin when he regarded Caramon, as if he expected him to suddenly disappear. Disappear, and leave him behind. Miran never saw the same fear in Caramon, even though he had more cause to; perhaps he didn't even realise.

"You know, it's weird to see you three. Or them especially." Miran nodded at Sturm and Caramon. Raistlin raised his eyebrows slightly, enquiring. "I mean, I never had people my own age around me when I grew up. Or well, some of the servants probably were. But I was the son of their employer, so..."

Raistlin nodded, indicating that he was listening.

"Now you... well, you're not really anyone's age, I think." He was flattering the young man slightly – Raistlin rather often acted his age, whether he chose to admit it or not – but it was undeniable that he was wise for his age. Cruel for his age too. "But you've always had your brother around, right?" He sighed, pretending not to notice how, once more, Raistlin's lips did the same contemptuous twitch. "I might have a little brother or a sister now, and I wouldn't even know it." The thought just struck him, and it came out of his mouth before he had time to decide if that was something he wanted Raistlin to know.

"Will he be better to them? Your father, I mean." Miran flinched, looking away. He'd explained about the detachment between him and his family – even though he'd been very vague when it came to the reasons – to all three of their new friends, but he had a hard time believing that anyone except Raistlin would have so effortlessly found the reason to why the thought of siblings hurt him so badly. But then again, Raistlin had a very intimate understanding of sibling rivalry; that much was clear.

"Probably yes," he admitted softly after a while, deciding that this was as good a way to let his secret out as any. "They'll be proper little elven children, heirs to..." He just barely caught himself. "...to his fortune, his position. Not a half-elven freak like me, locked up like a thief because that's what they all expected me to be." Miran was surprised when all that bitterness suddenly came spilling out of him like that; he had thought that perhaps he was on his way to getting over what his father had done to him. It appeared not.

Raistlin's eyes widened in surprise, and then even more in understanding. "You're half kender. That's what you've been trying to hide. That's why you keep interrupting yourself all the time, and that's..." He trailed off, and then thumped his hand hard down the fence he was leaning on, before wincing at the pain. "_That's _why Tasslehoff keeps covering for you," he exclaimed softly, and when Miran gave him a curious look, he elaborated. "Every time you've been absent, and I've tried to steer the conversation in a direction that might give me a clue on what it is you've been hiding – about your family, your time in Qualinesti – he's been... well, interrupting with questions, or suggesting we go outside, or just making sure to infuriate Flint, or... something." He smirked, his eyes glinting softly. "It's been maddening."

Miran sent Tas, dodging about Sturm and Caramon in some kind of weapon-oriented game of tag, a surprised glance, and then laughed quietly. "Yeah, and if you've wondered why he seems to borrow more stuff from you than from anyone else, it's not because you're all _that _interesting. It's just that I told him I was worried about you, and so he's been borrowing everything I've taken from you as well."

Raistlin raised his eyebrows in well-faked surprise, but Miran could see the smugness that he was trying to hide. "You've been worried about me?"

Miran snorted. "Yes, yes, you're very clever, and don't you know it. You obviously like finding out people's secrets, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Raistlin smirked. "A bit rich, coming from someone who's half kender, don't you think?"

"Kender don't understand the distinction between their business and everybody else's," Miran told the young man seriously. "I do. And so do you. Sometimes I can't help myself, but I try. _You_, however,do it because you enjoy the power it gives you." He shrugged, studying Raistlin's face as the human averted his gaze. "It doesn't really matter to me. And now you know my secret, so I don't have to worry. And as soon as I've told your brother, which I will, I will at least have taken away _some _of your power."

Raistlin frowned slightly. "And Sturm then? Won't you tell him?"

"Well, yeah, of course I will. But I really don't think you care as much about knowing something he doesn't, as you do about knowing something that _Caramon_ doesn't." Miran saw the almost imperceptible flutter of Raistlin's eyelids when he said this, and knew he had hit a sore spot. He grinned. "But that can be _our_ little secret, right? And I'll keep some other secrets of yours as well, how about that? Just because I like you. And, of course, so that the power-balance is at least moderately equal between us. You're not the only clever person around here, Raistlin Majere." He swung over the fence before Raistlin could say anything else, hoping that the human would believe him. He didn't quite trust the young man, so he _had_ gathered some secrets, of sorts, just to be safe.

He started approaching Flint and his students just in time to see the dwarf flinging Tas over his shoulder, obviously in a demonstration of some tactical manoeuvre. "Careful with him!" Miran called as Tas gasped for breath. "Kender aren't quite as thick-skulled as dwarves, you know."

Although still obviously short of breath, Tas laughed and came to his feet, apparently unharmed, and Miran felt his own shoulders relax in relief, something that surprised him. He hadn't even noticed how worried he'd been, nor did he really see why he should be. He knew his friend could handle more than that. Soon Tas was trying to convince Caramon to let him fling the giant human over_ his_ shoulder, and when the young man said he seriously doubted that he could, Tas simply replied by cheerfully flooring the huge man with a hard punch to the solar plexus.

"Well struck, kender!" an amused voice cried out, and as they all looked up in surprise, they saw two people approaching them, illuminated by the brilliant midday sun. Miran's heart leaped when he saw that Tanis was one of them; he had missed the man that had come to be both a friend and a brother, and had worried about him too, as he had been off to see his estranged family in Qualinesti. It was wonderful to see him now, grinning as if he had figured out the whole world, and realised that it was nothing more than a clever joke.

The woman next to him, the one Caramon greeted as Kitiara, was also grinning; it appeared that it was she who had called out. As they made their introductions and explanations, Miran studied her face carefully, quickly realising that this woman, in addition to being Caramon and Raistlin's sister, was also, indisputably, Tanis' lover. Confused by this, and quite unsure how to respond, he already had his defences down when she turned to him, gave him an almost military once-over, and then smiled her crooked smile at him.

"So, _this _is the half-kender I've heard so much about."

* * *

**A/N:** Hehehe XD Ain't she a bitch? /does the dance of evil/


End file.
